Monsters and Heroes
by TangoMikeMike
Summary: The Belkan War wasn't the first time Osea had been invaded by it's eastern neighbor. Fifty-five years before, Imperial Belka invaded, seeking revenge. This is the story of the soldiers, pilots and sailors on both sides as they fought for their families, their countries, and their lives. The story of how ordinary men became monsters, and the story of how monsters became heroes.
1. Before the Storm

Monsters and Heroes

_An ace combat fan fiction_

AN: Hi everyone. I'm back again with a new fanfic! Now, please, reviews are my life blood, so leave a lot! No flames please. Constructive criticism is encouraged though. I'm always in desperate need of it, anything to create higher quality work. Hell, if you're too lazy to think up a review, here's a premade one. "Oh wow. I like this. I'll keep reading!" Slap that in the review box and send it if you must. Now, enough talk, get reading!

"War turns heroes into monsters and monsters into heroes…" Anonymous

Prologue

Belkan and Osea had long been rival nations. For centuries the two had competed for dominance of their continent, fighting in a series of wars that increased in ferocity each and every time. The Osean-Belkan War had been the most vicious of them all. New technology had came headlong with old tactics, creating a disaster of apocalyptic proportions. After a year of suicide charges and hundreds of thousands of casualties, the war sunk down into stalemate. What had began as a conflict over the coveted Great Lakes region had became a moral and imperial death-match, where each nation fought tooth and nail for supremacy over the other. It was in this conflict that the Belkan Luftwaffe was created, and a legend was born. The first aces fought desperately in the skies, though never abandoned the chivalry that they believed they had inherited form the knights of yore.

But the battle on the ground remained deadlocked and bloody, only ending when starvation and internal turmoil forced both nations to settlement… and forced Belka to give up it's empire, as well as give up it's own share of the Lakes region. Bitterness and anger only settled and grew for decades before a new generation of Belkan leadership decided to make a decision. They would invade their neighbor and take back what was their own. But, time had changed, and this war would be fought not with bayonets and horses. Now this war would be fought with the weapons of the new age… tanks and planes would rule. The Belkan Blitzkrieg would rule.

/Dinsmark, Northern Belka/  
/Belkan Military High Command, Reichstag/  
/December 7, 1940/

Ludwig Model was a boy of only 17. He was the heir to the mighty throne of Belka, and his father, Kaiser Ludwig the First, was a man of great respect. Ludwig inherited that respect despite his age, and all of the members of the Imperial High Command was to treat him with the same honor that they treated his father. It was particularly important that they do so, as he was also the commander of the entire Belkan Invasion force… the mighty Wehrmacht, and the Luftwaffe. The navy was his fathers, no matter. He was the most powerful teenager in the world, and he was only a little drunk off the power that he possessed.

His father had given him a mission. Take back what was Belkan. The Great Lakes would be theirs, and he would be the one to ride triumphantly into Mannerheim, a town that was once Belkan and had been renamed Silver Creek when the Oseans had annexed it. There was still a large population of Belkan speakers there. Belkans who would happily join him as his armies marched.

But Model was merely the symbolic leader.

The real commander was Field Marshall Heinrich von Blücher. He was a man of aristocracy, with thinning gray hair that he hid underneath his peaked cap. His uniform, the distinct gray with the red pinstripes on the pants, was prim and pressed, and his chest was pinned with medals. The Knight's Cross was pinned around his neck as well.

Around him was a staff of generals who could be considered some of the best in the world. General Gregory Schmied, the pioneer of the Panzertruppen. Next to him was General Hans von Manstein, the commander in chief of the Luftwaffe. They had their own staffs, but the three officers were the heads of the entire invasion. They were experienced, they were talented, and they were devoted to the crown.

"Mein Herr, if you would please." Blücher spoke to the Prince, his hand gesturing over to the map table. "All of our preparations and planning is complete. All we need is your order for the requisite units to march to their assembly areas." He was cordial and respectful, despite the massive difference in age.

The Crown Prince stood and walked toward him, looking down to the detailed map. Various tin markers denoted units, both Osean and Belkan. And, as he noted, Sapinish and Rectan. The use of client states wasn't his favorite idea, but what had to be done had to be done.

"Mein Herr, our plan is simple." Blücher explained. "The entire 3rd Army has been assigned to you, three corps in total. We've determined that the Navy and III corps will coordinate to assault the Eaglin Canal, allowing our battle fleet to cross from the Dinsmark Sea into the Inland Sea. The Oseans believe that Sea to be theirs. If we can control that canal, we can show them who the real masters of the seas are. Once this has been done, we will destroy their Pacific Fleet."

Model nodded, feeling a smile creep on his face.

"VII Corps will attack into the Lakes Region directly. This unit contains the majority of the panzers, and they will put them to use in a Blitzkrieg assault. We can move your headquarters to Sudentor before the attack." Blücher directed his wooden pointer to several spots on the map. "And finally, IX Corps, composed mostly of Allied troops of Sapin and Recta, will attack from the south with their own armor and cut off any chance of Osean retreat or advance into the Lakes region. Quick, decisive, we will force the Oseans to the negotiating table before they have a chance to mobilize, and negotiate a peace that presents us as the victors, once and for all." Blücher stood back and smiled toward the young man, hoping that it was enough to satisfy.

"Mein Gott… Field Marshall, you have outdone yourself. I approve. I want the attack ready in as soon as possible. We will attack when the lakes are frozen and the enemy is in winter quarters. They won't stand a chance."

Blücher smiled in agreement. "Ah, I see. We can have them ready to fight in a week. Your father has also been discussing with his own staff, as well as Admiral Stoss. Osea will be struck on three sides with the speed of a cobra's strike."

Model laughed, his cheeks ruddy. "Ah, yes. As I said, you've outdone yourself. Now, enough work gentlemen… I say we celebrate." The prince was grinning at everyone in the room, officer or not. "Günther, break out the schnapps! It's time to celebrate!" There was a hearty cheer. Belka was marching to war, and now nothing could stop them.

A Storm was brewing, and now it was only a question of when it would break.

/Silver Creek, North Osea/  
/Sergeant Claude Grimm/  
/December 17, 1940/

The sound of boots on mud could be heard for miles. An Army was on the march. The entire V Corps of the Osean Army, three divisions, was on it's way to the north. The men of Baker Company, 2nd Battalion, 10th Mountain Division were in column. Their boots came down in rhythm as they paraded through the recently subjugated city of Silver Creek… a town that had been formerly known as Mannerheim.

Uniforms were dirty, men were tired, and the mud was everywhere. This parade was not for show. The men of the infantry were marching through the town on their way to the defenses that had been hastily built months ago. Belka seemed to have finally decided to make good on their threats. They would attack Osea, and everyone knew it. The only thing they didn't know was when…

But Claude knew it would be soon. And he knew it would be violent.

He knew because he had been a soldier in the Belkan Army. He was a deserter.

Claude had once been a proud Soldier of the Belkan Heer, a sergeant and a squad leader. The grenadiers, they had been known as. They had worn those distinct coal-scuttle helmets, jack boots and feldgrau. Professional soldiers, fierce fighters, and above all, they were proud.

Claude was also a veteran. He had fought in many battles against both the communists of his own country, and the communists of Sapin, after they had intervened in their civil. That was the closest he had ever came to perishing, and it was also when he had decided that he had no choice but to desert.

He had immigrated to Osea as soon as he could, hoping to have a quiet life as a farm hand. He had been selfish and he knew it, abandoning his men like that. And he had been forced into retribution. He could only gain his citizenship of Osea if he did one thing… he had to serve. He had to fight once more in the Osean army, prove to them that he would be a loyal member of their society.

He never knew that he would be fighting against his former comrades.

But he wasn't going to falter. He was a loyal soldier, and if there was one thing he was good at, it was killing. Unfortunately, his superiors didn't see that. What they saw was a Belkan and a deserter. They had no trust in him, and he was amazed that he had been given a platoon. But it wasn't a good one. He had been assigned to second-echelon troops. Poorly trained conscripts. Petty Criminals. Deserters. They were the refuse of a nation. And Claude detested that, with all of his heart. He had a mission. He was going to prove to them that he was more than just trash.

But it would difficult when their lifespan on the battlefield was measured in minutes. They had been equipped with old rifles, old uniforms, and old helmets. They looked as if they were marching out of 1919, while the regular units were all equipped with semi-automatic rifles, pot-style helmets and new, reversible uniforms. There wasn't enough to go around though, so even some of the regular units were marching with pie-tin helmets and springfield rifles.

But it didn't matter. A rifle was a rifle. A soldier was a soldier. And all of them would fight. They would all fight and die for their nation whether they liked it out not. After all, that was why soldiers were born. To die.

/8,000 feet over Neil AFB, en route to Silver Creek /  
/Osean Air force Captain Lee Nagase/  
/December 21, 1940/

"Bogies approaching on bearing 280. Small formation. Looks like another Belkan scout flight. Approach bearing 180, escort them out."

Lee Nagase flipped the transmitter switch on his radio, holding his P-40 steady with a single hand. This was the third time this month that his wing had scrambled for an intercept. Every week, almost on the hour, a small flight would ingress; loiter, than egress without causing much trouble.

The regular activity was good for pilot readiness, but it was always tedious, and considering, anything could go wrong. The Belkans were unpredictable.

He spoke into his radio, addressing his flight.

"Wardog 1-2, stay on my wing. Wardog 1-3 and 1-4, climb and provide cover." The young pilot ordered.

The two obsolete fighters trailing him climbed, their P-36's straining against gravity. Wardog 2 pulled onto his wing, the green pilot saluting him from his cockpit.

"So, what do you think about all this Cricket?" Asked Lee. Cricket was Wardog 2's call sign. His real name was Kris O'Hare. He was the son of a steel worker, and had not been able to afford college. The military had given him the chance he needed. It turned out he had a talent for engineering, and was planning to go to an engineering school after his contract was up.

"I think its first class bullshit." Kris muttered, the oath sounding odd in his soft voice. His family was deeply religious, he didn't swear much.

"What do you think Captain?" asked Wardog 3, Aka Dean Davenport. Davenport was the son of an Oured banker. He had entered basic training with a sense of entitlement. It didn't last long. He had quickly gained a reputation for being sharp minded, but loose of tongue. Also, his love affair with his sideburns and jazz made for a very outlandish and eccentric man.

"Hmm… not sure what to think. I guess it's better than having to shoot em down, don't ya think?" Lee replied.

Wardog 4 was characteristically silent.

"Look, we all know what this is. The Belkan air force is testing our readiness. They've been screaming up a storm over mining rights and trespassing back in Oured. They're goanna declare war eventually." Continued Dean.

Anxiety clenched Lee's heart. That was the thing he had been dreading all along. When he was drafted he had eagerly joined the air force, thinking that it would be the best service for peace time. But now with war brewing and the famed Belkan Air Force standing ready, it seemed to be the greatest mistake of his life.

"Well, let's just hope it doesn't come to that." He muttered back, attempting to hide the weakness in his voice. He then retreated into the safety of his own mind, as he often did when something was troubling him. This time was to mull over his own handicaps.

_I can't kill… I'm a pacifist… What did I get myself into… _he thought.

His mind wandered back to is last combat exercise.

_Six Months Earlier…_

_He pulled the aircraft inverted, preforming a quick yoyo maneuver. The fringes of his vision went black as blood was pulled away from his brain. The Allison engine before him snarled, the P-40 making the maneuver with ease. Directly below and in front of him was the instructors P-39. He snapped onto his tail, lining up the crosshairs. _

_ Pull the trigger… pull the trigger… his mind raced. His skin took on a ghostly pallor, and his hands were sweating profusely in his gloves. He couldn't do it. Even in a simple exercise he couldn't do it! _

_ His instructor took the advantage of his hesitation, barrel rolling, dumping speed and landing on Lee's tail. _

_ "Kill." He informed, his voice heavy with disappointment. _

"Hey captain! You still there? Kinda went silent on us." Inquired Kris, drawing Lee from his flashback.

"Yeah, I'm still here. Just going over my maps." He lied easily.

"Whatever man." Kris mumbled.

"Status Report?" Coughed Wardog 4, who had finally broken his silence.

"Why look at that, he does have a voice!" joked Dean.

Lee rolled his eyed, checking his maps for real this time. Lee observed that they were approaching Silver Creek . He switched channels on his radio, reporting back to control.

"Wardog 1 to Neil AFB, status on the bogey flight?" He asked.

The radio crackled.

"Continuing on their original heading." Came the quick confirmation.

Lee nodded to himself and relayed the information back to Wardog 4, who merely went by the pseudonym "Inferno".

He accepted Inferno's grunt of gratitude as the most he'll get out of him and continued to watch the skies around them.

"You should be making visual contact now" informed control.

Lee strained his eyes, intently scanning the stark white clouds that enveloped them. His eyes then caught on to a flash of yellow, which grew more and more defined as his flight approached. There, painted against the cloud, were four Belkan fighters. They bore the yellow nose of an elite squadron, and the flight lead, a Bf 110 Heavy fighter, had the fearsome visage of a demon painted on its nose. The other three aircraft were He-112 light fighters, all of which had a dark black and green camouflage pattern that was standard for Belkan aircraft.

Lee frowned. The Belkan air force was prepared for war. By contrast his flight still bore the vibrant yellow, silver, and white paint job that was so distinct of the Osean air force, but was terrible for any sort of combat operation. Only his P-40 bore camouflage, which was a simple silver paint on the aircraft's belly and an olive drab green over the wings and fuselage. He ended his analysis and began to report back to control.

"Confirm. Belkan fighters, three 112's and a 110." He reported to control.

The enemy flight, seeming to have noticed them, banked away, making for their homeland.

"They're bugging out, do we pursue?" Asked Lee.

"Negative. The diplomats in Oured wouldn't like it." Came the sullen answer.

"Wardog copies, all planes, RTB." The four plane formation peeled away into the sunset, leaving the icy skies above Silver Creek .

o-o

/Mammoth Shipyards, Port St. Hewlett/  
/Osean Naval Commander Patrick Anderson/  
/December 21, 1940/

The maiden voyage of any new warship was a big deal in this port city. But no such more than a new battleship. However, the early hour and cold weather had kept many away. The port was quiet; the many ships of the Pacific fleet either in dry dock or tied to the piers that jutted into the midnight waters. For all intents and purposes, the port was asleep.

Except of course, around the brand new battleship moored to pier number 13.

The OFS _Phoenix_ was a Cardinal Class fast battleship, made for speed and firepower, but not scrimping on armor either. Quadruple Steam turbine engines; four massive screws, and an armor belt that was over a foot thick. Three massive gun turrets featuring the fearsome 16'/50 caliber naval cannons squatted on her decks. Several secondary weapon batteries studded her sides. She was quite the site to behold.

Her first mission was a simple one. Sail out into the Ceres Sea, rendezvous with the OFS _Eagle_, then sail to the inland sea for joint trials.

Commander Patrick Anderson was a fresh graduate of the Osean Naval Academy. While still in his 30's, his hair had already begun to be flecked with gray. His first assignment was going to be a brand new battleship, and he was absolutely elated about that. At the time, nothing seemed to be able to kill his good mood. Not even his anxiety over the pregnant wife he'd be leaving behind.

He looked over the bay from his perch on the ships forecastle, softly humming to himself an old tune. He was at ease.

"Commander Anderson?" Came a voice from behind him.

Anderson turned to face the man who had addressed him, and upon realizing who he was he quickly snapped a salute. It was Adrian Snow, the Captain of the Phoenix.

Snow was a man of Versuan descent, evident by his dark, nearly purple, skin. He had a wide nose and a piercing glare, all of which combined to give him a critical look. He certainly fit the rugged sea captain stereotype.

He had the experience to back the stereotype up as well. In the Osean-Belkan war he had made a name for himself as a gunners mate on the heavy cruiser _Gilgamesh_. He rose through the ranks, butting heads and sinking ships as he went. Finally, as commander of Taskforce 340, he made the greatest victory in Osean naval history. His force of four escort destroyers, a heavily damaged light cruiser, a converted merchantman, and his own heavy cruiser, defeated the entire Belkan White Seas Fleet. The White Seas fleet had been composed of four brand new battle cruisers, a super dreadnaught, and several smaller escort vessels. Using his smaller force's maneuverability, he led them into a cluster of islands and small ice bergs. The area had also been shrouded in thick fog. The Belkan ships usually relied on flag and light signals to communicate. The fog prevented this; they were all essentially blind. It was a carefully constructed trap. Mines sunk several vessels. Confusion took hold, and Snow's destroyers were able to make quick and risky torpedo runs, sinking or damaging the remaining vessels. The two cruisers in his flotilla finished the survivors off with carefully aimed salvos. It was an amazing victory and had cost Belka the war.

It also left Anderson completely awed to be in the man's presence.

"Yes captain?" he answered.

"We will be casting off shortly. I need you on the bridge." Explained Snow.

"Yes sir, I'll be there shortly." Patrick replied softly.

The Captain nodded; turning and walking away. From beneath him Anderson could feel the ships steam turbines shuddering into life. This monstrous beast had been awakened, ready to rule the seas. The ropes mooring her to the pier were cut, and a small flotilla of tug boats pushed her out and into the harbor.

Anderson grinned. A new adventure had begun.

o-o

/Rally Point B, South Belka/  
/Belkan Panzer Corps Major Hans Kotz/  
/December 21, 1940/

The Belkan Panzers were the products of marvelous engineering. Fast, well-armed, and sufficiently armored. The panzer III AusF was no exception. 50mm KwK 38 L/42 cannon, 50mm of frontal armor, powerful gasoline engine, the apex of Belkan engineering. And Hans Kotz was honored to command an entire of unit of them. His unit, 43rd Panzer brigade, was assigned to army group B, the spearhead in the invasion of Osea. When the order came, they would secure Camden, then June City, and finally Mannerheim , the capital of the Lakes region. This would secure dominance of the region and open up the path for future attacks into the Osean heartland.

But he had more important things to attend to. He carefully constructed a letter to his sweet heart back home, a stunning vixen who had immigrated from Sapin. His heart was not in battle, like his father had always wanted it to be. It was in the arts. The 34 year old was an artist and a writer; he had little interest in this petty war. But, his father, an influential man in the government, had secured him a place in Belka's premier military academy, and he had ended up stuck in this frozen plain, awaiting orders to invade a sovereign nation. This was so bothersome…

"Hans, the colonel would like to see you." Spoke an uneasy voice from the door of his tent.

Hans sighed. The Colonel, Adolf Krueger, was always asking for him. He was his favorite boxing partner, and if he wanted to box in this godforsaken winter weather, something had to be troubling him greatly. But right now Hans was in no mood to deal with him.

"Tell him I am unavailable Heinz." He grumbled.

"Sir, you do not understand." Heinz, who was the loader of Han's panzer, clarified. He was a burly man with thick arms, a brute from the frozen tundra of North Belka. Han had to pull him out of several fights in the past. He had a hot temper and a lot of strength, a dangerous combination. "It's in regards to the invasion."

Sighing, Hans stood. The Belkan winter was upon them, and he was not looking forward to leaving the warmth of his tent. He donned a heavy great coat and a fur cap. He was confident the thick leather would be able to keep the cold out.

"Take me to him, Heinz." _If this isn't important I'll skin them all. _Hans added in thought.

The hot tempered loader nodded and led the way. Hans followed. As he left the tent the cold hit him like a brick wall. Oh, what he would do for some tea right now…

"The rest of the crew is already waiting" Heinz explained as they walked through the camp. This was strange, usually only the battalion commanders would be allowed in the command tent. The information must have involved all of them, Hans concluded.

The camp itself was abuzz with activity. Mechanics in their black coveralls tended to the battalion's panzers. Panzer grenadiers loitered about. Their coal scuttle helmets had white covers, and their usual field gray uniforms had been replaced with white great coats. Hans would wager that the Osean troops were still equipped with their olive drab green trench coats, relics of the past war. They'd be easy targets in the pristine white snow.

The door guard at Kruger's tent allowed them in immediately. The colonel himself was leaning over a map table, smoking a cigar. Small figurines of tanks, planes, infantry and artillery were placed in various places on the table, each representing a specific unit under the Colonels command. The other three members of Hans's crew stood behind him, at attention.

"Ah, Major Kotz, I'm glad you could make it." Kruger put out the cigar and approached Kotz, a bright smile on his face. He took him in a hug.

"It seems the time of redemption is quick on its way, my friend. The Osean fools will soon learn the true meaning of hardship." Krueger was found of the propaganda of the regime, as evident by his quoting of it. Kotz had feeling that talent wasn't one of the reasons Kruger rose through the ranks so fast. In fact, the man had very few accomplishments to his name.

Yes, he was a veteran of the previous war. But he had been wounded in the early stages, and rather than fighting in the trenches like the rest of his men, he remained in a hospital in Sudentor. Hans presumed he only possessed this rank because of a lot of sweet talking and some friends in high places. Despite this; superiors were superiors, no matter how incompetent they may be.

Hans cleared his throat. "You wanted to see me sir?" He asked flatly. He was in no mood for small talk or theatrics.

Krueger seemed disappointed with Hans's attitude. He rolled his eyes and walked toward a desk at the far end of the tent, next to the Colonels cot. He groaned as he leaned over to open it. Frozen tundra was no place for fifty-five year old men. "Yes… I have some new intel I believe you should be made aware of."

Kruger returned to the table and gestured for Hans to follow. Hans did so, and watched as Kruger rearranged some of the figures on the western side of the border, representing the Oseans. He added several more to the eastern side.

"As of 0000 hours, Sapin, Belka, and Recta will declare war on the Osean Federation. This has not changed." Hans nodded. The Eastern Pact; Recta, Belka, and Sapin had been allies since the Osean War. The three nations would invade in tandem; in order to shift the balance of power in their favor.

"However, the Sapos have moved an armored brigade into the vicinity, a last minute change decided by high command back in Dinsmark. This means we'll have a bit more firepower as we cross the border. I'm interested in seeing what those Erusian made panzer's can do." This was certainly interesting to Hans. The original plan had the Sapos driving south to cut off any escape by the Osean Army. What had changed?

"But here's the worst part." He said with an exasperated sigh. He moved one of the infantry icons away from the border and replaced it in the Capitol of the region, Mannerheim . "Osean high command, according to our spies, has recalled the 27th Infantry Division to Mannerheim , and replaced it with this"- he moved a tank icon toward the border-"The 1st Armored Brigade, freshly reequipped with a bloody panzer we haven't seen before."

Hans held back a curse. New panzer? That could be an issue.

"Are you familiar with the Osean tanks?" Krueger asked.

Hans nodded. "The M3 Lee is their primary medium tank. 7.5cm gun, dangerous at close range. Horrid armor and high profile. Threat level medium. The M3 Stuart, which is a light tank. It is primarily used for scouting and infantry support. Fast and small, decent 3.7cm cannon. Threat level low, but it can still raise hell against our Panzer IIs." He recited the information with practiced ease; he was required to memorize this as part of becoming a panzer commander.

"Very good." Kruger slapped a packet of files and pictures on the table, causing all the figurines to shake. "This is all the information we have on this M4 tank of theirs. There isn't much in there, but it may help. I just hope the Osean's didn't get smart and decide to put some armor on this thing. A 5.0 cm shell won't get past more than two inches of armor. Let alone a 3.7."

Hans nodded in agreement. "Thank you for informing me sir. I will make sure to inform the platoon commanders come morning."

Kruger didn't say anything against him alerting the other commanders, a signal that he was okay with whatever Hans decided to do. A good sign, after all. Sighing, Kruger left the tent with his crew and returned to his tent. Soon, such luxuries as tents and cots would be forgotten. He'd fought in the Sapo Civil War. He knew combat. And he knew that the following morning would be one of bloodshed.

o-o

/ Heierlark Air Base, South Belka/  
/Belkan Luftwaffe Pilot Theo Buchner/  
/December 21, 1940/

Theo Buchner was blood thirsty. A member of a noble family, he had been disgraced by the actions of his father in the previous war. His family had once been one of the most prestigious in all of Belka, all before the unfortunate actions of his father. Martial blood coursed through his veins, every male of his family had been a member of the Belkan armed forces, or a member of the armed forces of the Kingdoms that preceded Belka. But he never was able to enjoy this rich history… oh no, he was a social pariah, an outcast.

His father had been a cavalry man in the previous war. Then, he made a cowardly move. Ordered to charge an Osean emplacement, he instead ran from the field, only to be shot in the back. His family fell from grace, and he and his family had been scorned since.

Theo Buchner had one goal in life—return his families honor, once and for all.

He had nearly done it too. He was a pilot in the esteemed Belkan Luftwaffe, one of the best. He had fought in the Sapo Civil War, much like many of his countrymen. He had gotten his ace wings there, flying the He112 V model. Now, here he was, at Heierlark, watching as squadron after of squadron of fighters, bombers, and Fallschirmjäger's arrived at the installation, the largest of its kind in all of South Belka.

Theo lit a cigarette and watched from the barracks window as ground grew herded lumbering He111's, slim Do217's, and Shark like Bf 109's around the tarmac. One of the 109's was his, no doubt. He couldn't see it in the darkness, but his would bear the striking crimson paint of the Rot squadron. He had earned his place in the elite squadron, and soon, he would earn his country's respect once more.

"Hey Theo, got time to talk?" A voice from behind.

Theo turned around and eyed the tail man who stood there. He was Rot leader, Reiner Stoss. Reiner was one of the few men that Theo respected, and when Reiner had something to say, the typically headstrong Theo listened.

"Sure I do, Captain." Theo nodded, before taking a deep drag from his cigarette.

The tall blonde sat down next to the much shorter salt and pepper haired one. Theo was prematurely gray… but his other features still suggested vitality and youth.

"Lieutenant, I want you to be aware, unlike the Sapo Republicans, the Oseans are not push overs. Their planes are more modern, not the Yuke biplanes from before. This will be a hard fight, one we can best win with caution and coordinated attack."

Ah. A lecture. It made sense to Theo now.

"I am fully aware, Captain." Theo interrupted. "I have fought them before, back in Seville. Carrier fighters, Buffalo, they called them. A fitting name, they were so lumbering and slow, it was almost unfair, hacking them from the sky." Buchner's eye's held a feral light. "It was all great fun, watching those burning wrecks fall into the sea."

The Captain was not taken back. He had grown used to Theo's murderous attitude. However, he was still quite serious.

"A bad attitude, Theo. Time has passed, the Oseans have learned. Do not underestimate them." Reiner left it there, standing up and walking away, leaving the conversation behind right there.

Theo took another drag of his cigarette. In a handful of hours, he would see if the Capitan was right.

o-o

/Rally Point A, South Belka/  
/Belkan Corporal Erwin Grimm/  
/December 21, 1940/

Cold. Always so cold. Erwin Grimm hated cold. He had simply experienced too much of it… in the cold, rifles jammed. Engines refused to start. Flesh froze to steel. And here he was, left shivering on the Osean border, nothing but a snow white great coat, a campfire, and a few swigs of some cheap brandy the section leader had shared to keep him warm. It wasn't enough, but it was better than nothing.

Still, the bitter wind, coming cold from the east, held bite. Enough to make him wish he had never joined the Army in the first place. But he had done it in order to follow his older brother, Claude. And Oh, how dumb an idea that had been…

Erwin Grimm hated his brother with every fiber of his being. But it had not always been like that. Before hand, he had really loved his brother. He could remember the good all days, back before his brother left for Sapin. Before they received the notice that he had gone missing in action. Before they found out he was a traitor.

Erwin took another vicious swig of the schnapps in his canteen. The liquid burned going down, and made him cough. He still wasn't used to it, unlike the more senior soldiers in his section. The older sergeants often made fun of him, and called him a poor excuse of a non-commissioned officer.

Seven men sat around the fire, drinking and laughing, trying their best to ignore the fact that they'd be thrown into the meat grinder the next day, thrown into a war they wanted, no matter how dangerous it could be. Everyone wanted revenge on Osea. Everyone. But Erwin had more personal reasons. He knew that his brother was somewhere across that border, and he would find him, no matter what.

Done with his brooding, Erwin stood up and picked up his Mauser. He approached another soldier, who held a MP40, his sections point man. He was a good friend named Ludwig Kaiser. He was a lowly private, and was even younger than Erwin. Neither had fought in the Sapo Civil War. Both would end up learning about true combat, the hard way.

"Ludwig, got any smokes on you?" Erwin asked. He wasn't a smoker until he joined the Army. Even so he didn't smoke very much, but now, he needed one quite badly.

The baby faced private pulled a box from his tunic and handed it to Erwin. "Here, take the whole thing. I'm trying to quit." He responded flatly.

Erwin frowned. Ludwig usually smoked like an old man at a race track. Something was up with him. "What's wrong?" Erwin asked softly, sitting down and removing his coal scuttle helmet.

Ludwig looked into the night's sky and sighed, vapor wafting from his lips. "I just... I just think that if I'm going to die, I might as well die by something that isn't my own fault."

Erwin was shocked. He hadn't expected a straight answer. Ludwig was scared, and he actually admitted it. Erwin wrapped his arms around the other teen, and then smiled. "Yeah, whatever you need to tell yourself. But no matter what, when we're in Mannerheim , we're going to share a victory smoke."

Ludwig laughed. "Fine, we have a deal." He looked back toward the sky, and Erwin followed his gaze. The stars twinkled above, ignoring the affairs of men.

o-o

/Oured Harbor/  
/Osean Atlantic Fleet Base/  
/December 22nd, 1940. 00:00 Hours/

Silence laid over Oured as the late hours of December twenty first became the early hours of the twenty second. The ships of the Osean Atlantic Fleet laid at anchor, their crews asleep and their officers off on shore. Seven battleships, four cruisers, one carrier and a dozen destroyers were present at her anchorage, while a further two battleships and three cruisers were berthed at her piers and dry docks. They ranged from old coal-fired vessels from the previous war, to new, sleek, advanced vessels built as part of President Horn's naval expansion program. They represented Osean prestige, power, and freedom. And they were above all, a sitting duck.

Launching from bases in Sapin, four hundred Luftwaffe fighters and bombers had flown across the Gulf of Oured to destroy them. They were the elite, the capable. And they had every advantage. Numbers, surprise, and skill. The entire formation was skimming the waves, coming low and in radio silence.

They could hear the occasional calls of the Osean forces stationed at Farragut Fortress, or at Whiteson Air Base. And as the came closer and closer, they could see the twinkling lights of Oured. No blackout. Fools, thinking that they were safe. Belka could touch them. Belka could hurt them. The whirring engines of their craft loomed, the sounds of hundreds of fighters and bombers droning over the horizon. No one was awake to hear them.

The Osean sailors snoozed in their bunks as the Belkan assault flight approached. Even the president himself found himself in bed, snoozing and enjoying the bliss of the night. Only a few were awake, and even they were not vigilant. Belka was far away they thought. Belka could never attack them, from the sea, or from the air or from the ground. Oured was as safe as safe could be.

They were wrong.

At 00:23, the first bomb dropped. A flight of Ju-87 Stukas had dived down, their Jericho trumpets wailing in the night air. The horrible sound alerted the guards, but it was too late. Four bombs struck the citadel of Farragut Fortress, their armor penetrating heads allowing them to cut through steel and concrete before they detonated deep inside, killing off officers and enlisted alike. A fireball was sent high into the night sky, illuminating the sea and the land. Moments later the sirens and search lights came to life, chaos destroying the peace of the night.

Two Ju-87's, laden with bombs, dived down on their next target: the tank farm at Oured's naval station that served both the Navy and Air Force. The dive bombers loosed their explosive cargo before screeching away, the incendiary bombs detonating among the massive white oil tanks of the farm. The darkness of night was immediately forced away as millions of gallons of fuel oil and aviation fuel ignited, flames as large as buildings reaching high into the sky. Thick black smoke choked the air.

It was a panic on the ground. Osean soldiers were shaken awake by the bomb blasts, and Osean Airmen found themselves blinded by the glare of the burning tank farm. The pilots and ground crews stumbled from bunks, bumbling about like blind men as they searched for clothes, for weapons, or, for some, an escape.

Belka would have nothing of it. The precision raids of the Stukas continued, moving on next to ramp at Whiteson. Dozens of P-36's, P-40's, and B-25's were parked there. The dive bombers made run after run, coming down and dropping their deadly payloads before circling around to strafe. Green tracers from 7.92 machine guns arched through the air as they obliterated the hapless Osean birds.

Simultaneously, the Bf-109's and He-112's of the fighter group dived on Jackson Naval Air Station. The nimble hawks were coming down on low, sweeping runs, cannon fire raking the Wildcat and Buffalo fighters, rendering them useless. Total surprise had been achieved, not a single Osean fighter had been able to get themselves airborne. The Belkans ruled the skies.

At this point, radio silence on both sides had been ignored, and chatter filled the airwaves. Both sides were quickly reporting what they knew, and often enough, asking for what they didn't know. Belkan fighters were swooping about, strafing anything that looked like it could possibly fight back. Osean Command was struggling to find out what was true and what wasn't. With conflicting reports, it was almost impossible to determine what was truth and what was speculation.

The Belkans knew it was time to take advantage of it. Ju-87's began their runs on the helpless warships moored in the anchorage, unable to maneuver, unable to do anything to save themselves. The lumbering battleship November City, an old coal burner, was the first to be struck. A bomb penetrated down into her forward deck, before it detonated deep inside her. Flame and shrapnel filled her corridors as several compartments filled with sleeping men were vaporized.

There was blood in the water, and it was going to attract sharks. Two more Ju-87's vectored on the now wounded November City, a pair of bombs coming down on her amidships. One failed to detonate and penetrated all the way through her deck armor, passed her boilers, and then into her bottom, before burrowing into the mud. The second, however, penetrated behind her aft stack and detonated in a coal bunker, causing a fire that burned furiously.

But the ordeal for the stricken warship was not over. Four more stukas dove on her, dropping their own ordinance. Four more bombs struck her, two detonating deep in her engineering and living spaces. But it was the third bomb was the one that finished her. The 500kg bomb detonated in her aftmost gun turret, igniting the powder magazine below. The thick rolled steel that made up the turrets armor acted like a cork, until finally the pressure became too great and the entire turret was blown off the deck and into the sea, a great geyser of flame taking its place. Moments later the fires spread to her main magazine, destroying the entire aft section of the ship in a violent explosion.

The smoke of her funeral pyre joined the choking cloud that was creeping over the entire harbour. She was soon to be joined by her sisters. Moored next to her had been the heavy cruiser King Arthur. She was already damaged by the blast from the November City, men having been swept off her decks along with anything that wasn't bolted down. But now it was her turn to suffer. Two Bf-109's, both laden with 100kg bombs, danced above her. Contrails streamed from their wings as they banked through the pillars of flame and smoke before coming on a final attack run on the Arthur. They deployed and sharply pulled up, avoiding the cruisers superstructure as they roared past.

The four bombs detonated at the waterline, penetrating the ships thin armor. Cold water began to force its way inside of her, washing men away and pouring through watertight doors that had been left open. The entire ship groaned as she began to settle further into the water. Her compartments were flooding one by one, and in the frantic disorder of the morning, no one could manage to make a concerted effort to prevent her from sinking. Her captain and executive officer weren't even on board. She was sinking. Slowly, but the fires from the November City were spreading. She was doomed either way.

Another battleship, this one moored directly to the pier at the Naval Station, was next to be struck. She was unable to maneuver. She was trapped, a perfect target for a torpedo bomber. And the Belkans had brought them just for this. Twelve He-111 medium bombers, all configured in their torpedo bomber variant, dove down to wave top level, bomb bays opening to reveal the two G7a torpedoes mounted within. The twin engined former-airliners droned forward, bombardiers lining the sights on the immobile ship.

The ship, the 32,000 ton Oured, was one of the newer battleships. Even so, she was still nearly 10 years old, and lacked underwater protection. She was vulnerable. The flight of bombers dropped their fish and pulled away, leaving a salvo of six torpedoes to destroy her. It was overkill, if there was such a thing. Each and every torpedo struck her directly, detonating and shearing away her hull. Oil bled into the sea as her fuel tanks were ruptured, and sea water poured in to fill the gaps. Sharp groans from snapping and bending steel echoed through the air as she settled down to the bottom, broken and battered. Her keel sunk into the mud and the harbor's water lapped at her superstructure and bridge.

A violent explosion, the third one of the morning, pierced the night. The light cruiser Andromeda had been struck amidships by a bomb, her magazines detonating in one uproarious conflagration. She broke into three pieces and slipped beneath the oily waters. Corpses floated to the surface along with light debris. She was the fourth kill of the night.

By this time, the harbor was reminiscent of hell. Furious flames consumed buildings and warships, and the wreckage of aircraft smoldered chronically. Pops and crackles echoed past the roaring inferno. However, the droning and snarling of aircraft engines began to fade. The first wave had passed, they were done. The surviving soldiers and sailors struggled to catch their breath in this period of respite. Small groups lead by non-commissioned officers patrolled about, searching for wounded and collecting weapons. Panic had to be averted. Weapons had to be manned. Osea was at war, there were no if, ands, or buts about it.

They didn't get very long of a break. Screeching in from above came the second wave… level bombers. Dozens of Do 17's, He-112's and Fw 200's, all in large formations. Below them flew more flights of Stuka dive bombers and torpedo equipped He 111's. The Osean fleet was to be destroyed before the city itself was to be bombed.

But the Oseans were ready this time. As the swarm of warplanes hovered above, Osean Anti-aircraft guns finally opened up, puffs of black smoke and streams of yellow and red tracers reaching up like the fingers of death. Any warship that had been left unscatched from the initital attack was determined to make steam and begin to move, lines being cut and men left behind.

The Oseans were rewarded for their efforts when several 20mm cannon shells found themselves a Fw 200 condor. The converted airliner burst into flames, tumbling from the sky and breaking apart before it finally slammed into the sea.

The retribution was devastating.

Eight Stukas dived on AA Cruiser Gallivant, peppering her deck with 7.92 machine gun fire. As they pulled away they left behind several bombs, all of which detonated deep within her. The fifth major detonation of the night erupted as her fuel ignited and the lightly armored cruiser was obliterated, small sheds of steel dropping down into the sea as she broke up. The Oseans remained determined, despite this, firing literally everything that they could into the air.

Two destroyers had actually managed to get underway. Their captains led them off past the harbor and into the gulf of Oured, ready to engage anything that dared to try and force entry into the port.

The Belkans ignored them and focused instead on the remaining ships. They dove about, engaging literally anything that looked like it was still capable of waging war. The aircraft carrier Albatross was struck by fourteen bombs and three torpedoes, leaving her embroiled in flames. She was settled down deeper and deeper until she finally came to the bottom, her ruined flight deck and smashed planes standing only a few feet above the water line. Three capital ships of the Atlantic fleet destroyed.

The second wave was paying for their success, however. Several more stukas had been knocked down by the hail of gunfire, and only a few of their crews had actually managed to escape. No matter what, there would always be a cost. For Osea, the cost would be much higher. Another crippled battleship began to roll over after having been struck by several torpedoes, settling down on her side. Several crippled destroyers burned furiously, thick black smoke billowing from them into the choking sky. The moon and the stars were blotted out by the sheer size of the smoke cloud.

Another battleship suffered. The Osprey rolled over on her belly, until she was completely capsized. Men had been trapped within her, but there was nothing to do for them, at least not yet. A fourth capital warship had been destroyed, and the Belkans were still killing.

But the main target of the second wave was not the ships. The ships themselves had been absolutely destroyed. The target of the second and final wave was the city of Oured itself.

Formations of bombers flew low overhead. The flak grew lighter and lighter as they left the military areas and entered the civilian areas. Oured was going to burn. The squadrons of He 111's and Do 17's had enough incendiary and high explosive bombs to flatten half the city. Ahead of them loomed the high raises of Oured, a symbol of Osean prosperity and an offense to all of Belka, a Belka that had been torn apart by internal strife and economic depression since the end of the first war.

It was a bombing of revenge.

The air was filled with iron as thousands of tons of bombs were dropped over the industrial districts of Oured, factories becoming funeral pyres as they detonated. Terror filled the streets as an unprepared populace found itself under attack from an unknown foe. Oured was burning and there was nothing that the millions of people who lived there could do. It was true hopelessness.

The Belkans didn't linger. After the terror bombing of the city was complete, the more short-legged aircraft, the junkers 87's and Bf 109's, turned back for their bases. The larger medium bombers, no longer hindered of their bombs, remained behind to take a measure of the raids damage before they turned back the way they had came. The explosions stopped. The gunfire subsided. As quickly as it had came, the raid had ended.

There was silence. Oured, burning and demoralized, was quiet. Only the sounds of crackling flame ruined the peace of devastation. But, slowly, the shell shocked residents of the Osean capital began to emerge from their shelters and hiding places, and the soldiers and sailors of the military installations began the long and painful process of finding the dead, the wounded, and the missing. There were mutterings and questions, so many questions. But, above all, one thing was clear.

Belka had declared war.


	2. Black Eagle

/Neil Airbase, Central Osea/  
/Captain Lee Nagase/  
/December 22, 1940/

Lee watched the skies with a sharp eye, catching the twinkling light of every star as they made their way across the sky. It was a beauty that always fascinated him, the tranquility of space. The only thing he loved more were the white birds of his home town, the albatrosses that passed through on their yearly migrations. One of his favorite past times had been to sit on his porch and draw them as they passed.

When he was younger, he was a solitary child. He'd rather read, write or draw then wrestle and fight. In those days, he had always longed to fly like the beautiful white birds.

But now he was all grown up, and he wasn't basking in the warm trade winds of his old town. Instead, he shivered through the bitter wind of winter, far from home, on a dirt airfield south of the Black River. The only benefit of the wind was that it blew away the industrial smog that usually enveloped the valley around the river, which was framed with factories and mills. However, his sensitive nose still found the musk of smoke and soot. Nothing could blow away something that had been saturating the air for so long.

His pencil carefully scratched along paper, even as he stared up into the sky. Faint lines became birds, and small dots, stars. As he drew, his thoughts became projected onto the page. Soon, the enchanting scene he was gazing upon appeared over the once blank page of the sketch pad. The midnight sky meeting the low hills, and the silvery, moon-lit waters of the river snaking below. The view from the airfield control tower was breathtaking.

"What are you doing up here? It's freezing, you'll catch a cold."

Kris had came up from behind. Lee didn't hear him climb the ladders into the tower, and he briefly thought about what could have happened if he was on watch. He shook his head and cleared his thoughts.

"Just enjoying the tranquility, you know?" he responded softly. It was true, he had come here for the silence. All the other pilots and ground crew in the barracks, drinking and gambling, it wasn't a productive place for any kind of artistic traits. He didn't hate the other pilots per say, but he didn't like spending too long in their company. The only three people he could actually stand for any amount of time were the members of his wing. Anyone else, he merely tolerated.

Kris smiled and took a seat next to Lee. "I don't blame you. I've got a headache already. Davenport's betting all his pay again, as usual."

Lee chuckled. "What an idiot. He knows he never wins. You should probably go back and drag him out of that damn game before he ends up gambling away his soul."

Kris laughed in response, before letting it die down to a small chuckle, and then sighing. He turned to Lee and looked him in the eye. Lee wanted to look away, to cower, but Kris' gaze wouldn't allow it.

"Lee, I know something is up. What's wrong." He finally said softly, but sternly, demanding a response in his own persuasive way. Lee knew his attempt to change the subject had been in vain. Kris could always read people as if they were open books, he had the ability to sense when something wasn't right in a person. Lee knew that lying would be useless, he had to tell the truth.

"I'm a coward, alright. I'm not cut out to be a soldier." He admitted, before dropping his head into his hands. He continued to mumble. "I can't do this. When my father took me hunting, I couldn't even find it in me to shoot a rabbit. A goddamn rabbit! How the hell can I kill a person?"

Kris didn't say anything, instead letting Lee continue on.

"He was so disappointed in me… When he first taught me to shoot, I was incredible at it. I could hit any target, any size. He said I had an eagle's eyes." Lee looked to the dark, clear sky, taking in once more the stars that shone so brilliantly overhead.

"The instructor at flight school told me the same thing. He said I had hands of gold, that I was the best pilot he'd ever seen. For my whole life everyone has commended me on my potential, but I always let them down, without fail. It's in my nature. I'm nothing but a fool. A fool and a failure."

Only now did Kris speak.

"Lee. I need you to listen to every word I'm about to say. Some of them will be harsh, but I'd rather you hear it from me, opposed to learning it the hard way." Kris gestured to the east. "Across that border is the Belkan Luftwaffe. They're tough, experienced, and they're skilled. Now, tell me, what makes you different than them?"

Lee was about to start listing ways, until he realized the question was rhetorical.

"There are only two differences between you and them. You're skilled and you're tough, you can't deny it. You took those road marches back in training as if they were a Sunday stroll through the park! The only things that make you different then them is your level of experience, and your motivation, or rather, lack there of."

Lee wanted to argue about how they were killers, how most of them had all fought before. But once more, Kris left him no room to speak.

"You need motivation Lee. You are capable of being a great soldier. I know it, you know it, the squadron knows it. You wouldn't be wing leader if you didn't have talent." Kris' finger poked Lee in the chest as he made each point.

"They have motives Lee. Reasons to fight. Whether it's for glory, or for pay, or for survival, they all fight for something. They are people just like you, people with morals and fears. But no matter what, in the end, either they die or you die. It's your choice who sees the pearly gates." Kris' speech was over now, and he merely watched Lee, waiting for a reaction.

Lee remained silent and pensive. He knew full well that Kris was right on every account. There was no question that war was about to break out, and regardless of what Lee believed, he'd have to fight. He'd have to find a way to stomach it.

Thunder rolled in the distance, and Lee turned toward it. Back at his home, thunderstorms rolled in every day. He loved to watch them, just as much as he loved watching the stars and the birds. Lighting was a beautiful phenomenon, a marvel of nature. Beautiful and destructive, the way the light danced across the sky always captivated Lee's imagination.

But this was no thunderstorm.

The first roll of thunder was quickly followed by another, and another. The flashes that Lee saw over the horizon was not lighting, it was artillery. Big guns thumping away. Lee's breath caught in his throat.

"No… no… it can't..." he muttered, horrified.

The sirens began to blair not more than a moment later.

Kris didn't waste any time. He grabbed Lee by the collar and pulled him up from his chair. "No time to have a fucking panic attack Lee! Get up, this is the real deal!"

Search lights joined the flashes of the guns. The shafts of light waved across the sky, illuminating the sparse clouds. Soon, the twin trails of tracers from anti-aircraft guns joined them. The once clear night was now alight with shell bursts, and the quiet was shattered by the rolling explosions of bombs. Kris was already down the ladder, having left the frozen Lee behind.

Kris turned back around and screamed back up at the younger man. "Do you want to die down here, or do you want to die in the clouds! It's your choice!" Kris turned away and was now sprinting across the grass field toward the revetments were the squadron's fighters were parked. The sound of aircraft was now audible over the rattle of cannon fire. McNash Air Force Base, which was situated on the other side of the river, was alight with flame. The search lights and anti-air batteries that framed her perimeter were still searching the sky for the planes that had all but razed the base.

That was enough to get Lee moving. He slid down the ladder of the tower, and began to sprint across the field, following Kris, who was now standing by a shed, retrieving the flightgear stored there. Lee was able to catch up to him now, panting after running nearly half a mile across the base. Kris was already wearing his fighter jacket and and his flight helmet, with the oxygen mask hanging off of it. He wasn't wearing a parachute.

"Hurry up. The rest of the squadron will be getting ready as well, we need to get in the air before the enemy does to us what they did to them..." He pointed to McNash, before shaking his head. Lee didn't need any more encouragement.

He followed Kris toward the four planes that belonged to Wardog, all of them bearing a stylized beagle on their tails. Three P-36's and a P-40. Neither Kris nor Lee were even sure they had fuel or ammunition, but they didn't have time to worry about that. They had to get into the air. If not, they'd simply be sitting ducks for bombers. At least in the air they had a better chance of running away.

Kris scrambled to his own fighter, pulling himself unto the wing. He opened up the ammo box and looked inside before grinning. "They're still armed from our sortie this morning! We can fight!" He unlocked the canopy on his craft and slid into the cockpit, leaving it open as he began start up procedures. Soon, the radial engine in the P-36 began to stutter and pop, before roaring into full life. The tri-bladed prop spun into invisibility. At this point, ground crew and other pilots had finally left the barracks, and were scrambling around the base, trying to get fighters fueled and ready to intercept.

Kris was mouthing from his cockpit to Lee. It could be presumed that he was speaking, but the growling engine of the fighter kept any voice from being heard. The message remained clear, however. Get into the air before it was too late.

Lee needed no further prompting. He sprinted to his P-40 and lept onto the wing, nearly slipping off the ice slick, aluminum skin before grabbing ahold of the glass and steel canopy that encased the cockpit. The latch was already open, and it slid back on it's rails with a little effort, allowing Lee to vault into the cockpit. He strapped himself to the leather seat, before flipping the switches on the control panel responsible for the batteries. The few electrical components in the cockpit hummed to life, including the starter button. His thumb jammed it, and the electric starter coughed as it attempted to jump start the engine. The well kept engine caught on the first try, sputtering and then thundering to life, vibration coursing through the fighters steel frame.

Engine noise from starting fighters was echoing from every corner of the base now, but most of the other pilots were not ready for battle. Only Kris and Lee could fight for now, and they were running out of time.

"_All pilots, this is Base Commander Mason. As of 00:00, we are now at war with the Belkan Federation. Radar has a large formation of aircraft coming in from the north east, and they ain't friendly. ETA is eleven minutes. Get in the air and save this base! Godspeed." _The base speaker system mirrored what Lee's radio had just transmitted. It was war, and it was coming directly at them.

"Don't waste your time Lee, we have to get into the air." Kris had found the same channel as Lee, and the two could speak. It was a standard frequency though, everyone could hear them. The truth was the same in reverse, they could hear everyone else using the same frequency.

"Yeah, yeah, I know." Lee finally stuttered out. He pushed the throttle and left the earthen revetment, his fighter rattling as it crossed the grass field toward the unpaved stretch of frozen dirt that was the bases landing strip. Kris was already waiting on it, his fighter idling.

"Should we wait for the others?" Lee asked, looking out of his cockpit toward the other planes as they started up and began to move.

"Negative. We need to get in the air and cover their take off. We simply can't be caught on the ground." Lee nodded, and watched as Kris did the same from his own cockpit. The both of them pushed the throttle and started to roll down the strip, their fighters quaking and shaking as they hit rocks and cracks. Soon enough, they both were in the air, gaining speed and altitude.

"We have to use as much time as possible to climb. We both know Belkan fighters have a better climb rate, we don't want them to bounce us from above." Lee was finally starting to shake off his shock and move back into a position where he could give orders. Kris acknowledged his order and pulled higher into the clouds. Lee followed, pushing the watercooled engine of his warhawk to it's limit. All the tactics and information he had learned at fighter school was rushing through his mind.

"Alright Kris, stay low. I'll pull high and watch from above. My fighter has better high altitude performance than yours." In this case, better didn't necessarily mean good. The P-40 only had a single stage supercharger and lost performance above 10,000 feet. The P-36's air cooled engine would fare no better. However, the air cooled engine on the P-36 was more rugged and could survive more punishment, meaning Kris would do better on the offensive.

"Try and take the bombers from below. I'll watch for escorts." Lee ordered, before glancing to his fuel gage. Nearly empty. The fighter may have been armed, but he only had about a few hours worth of fuel.

"Sure you can handle that Lee?" Kris asked, concern heavy in his voice. He was vulnerable to being jumped by Belkan escorts at his altitude.

"Yeah… yeah, I'm sure." Lee stuttered. He was lying and he knew it, and he was sure that Kris knew it too. But neither of them had time to worry about it. The bombers were approaching.

"This is Captain Nagase to Neil AFB. What's the status on the other squadrons?" Lee needed to know, desperately. He and Kris couldn't take out every bomber, and if the other fighters failed to get in the air they would all be done for.

"_Both Halo and Rapier squadrons aren't ready. The rest of Wardog and all of Wolf squadron are all ready to roll, ETA is three minutes. Just try to keep them occupied." _That was both good and bad news. They would have a fighting chance with two wings airborne, but they would not have the support of Halo and Rapier, the strongest squadrons they had.

"Lee! I have visual contact with the enemy! Junkers, I think they're dive bombers. Permission to engage?" Kris reported. Lee looked down toward Kris' position. Four gull winged, fix landing gear warplanes were coming in at his 12, and below him. Lee could only assume they carried bombs.

"Take them out Kris! We can't let them hit the base! Permission granted!"

Kris needed no further prompting. He dove down on the dive bombers, his machine guns ripping. The lead stuka erupted in flame as it's wing was struck, before it began a death spin into the river. Kris' high speed pass caught the others by surprise and they scattered, dropping toward the deck. Golden tracers illuminated the night sky as rear gunners tried to blow the offending Osean from the sky.

"Got one, got one! Enemy plane shot down!" Kris cheered, circling to confirm the kill. Lee cheered with him. "That'll keep them away!"

Lee was about to congratulate Kris on his kill when he caught a crimson flash along the mountain side. He followed it with his eyes, trying to identify it. It was a fighter alright, painted in brilliant blood red. It was sleek and shark like, and simply looked eons ahead of the P-36 and P-40. It was joined by four more of the same model, all of them bearing the same color.

"_This is Rot leader to all enemy combatants. Flee or fall from the skies in flame. All Rot aircraft, split off and engage any and all enemy fighters. Leave none alive." _

The five plane formation split apart with precision, each pilot moving off on his own. Lee was up high enough that he had not been noticed, but for Kris, it was another story. One of the 109'sapproached him from his seven, directly below and in front of Lee.

"Kris! You got a bandit on your tail!" Lee warned frantically, watching in near helplessness as the predatory warbird stalked Kris.

"What, where?! I can't see him, I can't see him!" The usually composed man was near panic now. He threw the fighter into a roll, trying to escape into ground clutter. The 109 trailed him, bearing ever closer.

"He's still on you Kris! You have to try and shake him!" Lee's hands began to sweat, and he felt his stomach knotting up. His shoulders shook like a rickety post in the wind, and his vision was darkening around the edges. He was falling apart! He had to get it together.

"I can't get him off me! Kill him!" Kris was begging now, his voice sounded strained. His P-36 was weaving only a hundred feet above the snowy tree tops, and no matter what that fighter remained on him.

"I'm engaging, I'm engaging!" Lee promised. He threw the stick and rolled inverted, before pulling into a split S maneuver, gaining speed at the cost of altitude. He leveled out at about 300 hundred feet, with enough speed from his dive to catch up to the two other warplanes.

Things were getting worse. The 109 had approached to gun range, and he was firing. Heavy cannon rounds and lighter machine gun rounds stitched across the sky, arching over Kris' fighter in an attempt to lead it. If Lee didn't do something soon, Kris would be hit.

He hit the throttle even harder. Lee watched as the speck that was the 109 grew larger and larger in his gunsight. He was approaching fast. Soon, the crimson fighter was within gun range, and was nearly perfectly in his crosshairs.

Kris threw his fighter towards the left once more, trying to throw the Belkan off of him. It was futile, the enemy was not going anywhere. The cannon rounds continued to edge closer and closer to his fighter.

"Get this fucker off me Lee! He's got me locked up!" Kris had little semblance of composure. He was terrified and helpless. He couldn't outrun his enemy and he couldn't out maneuver him. It was all up to Lee. Lee had his shot, all he would have to do is pull the trigger for a mere three seconds…

"Take the goddamn shot Lee! I won't last much-" Kris would never get to his complete his sentence. A high explosive round caught his engine, lighting it into flames. The radio did catch his screams though. Tortured and feral, piercing into the ears of every single person who happened to be listening. His stricken craft fell to the earth in a steep arc, before erupting into an even larger fireball when it hit the deck. The screams fell into an oppressive silence. The Belkan pilot circled to confirm the kill.

"..." Lee was stuck in a stunned silence, his mouth hung open. Everything seemed to slow for him, and suddenly grow more and more surreal. The night sky seemed clearer. The sensation of motion as he shot through the sky became stronger. He felt the bottom of his gut dropout, and he became thoroughly sick. It was like breaking free of a nightmare, only to realize that the nightmare had been real from beginning to end. Except it still wasn't over.

Kris was dead. There was no question. This was no longer simply a bad dream. Now, Lee recognized that everything he feared had came to pass in a matter of minutes. War, death, loss... everything In that moment, something broke inside of him. His vision grew blurred around the edges. He wiped at his face, expecting tears. He found none. His vision then became perfectly clear, and his heart ceased to skip beats.

"I'm going to kill you, bastard."

He threw his fighter to the left, growling as the g-forces shoved him into his seat. The crimson 109 was circling around, having noticed him. The shark like fighter was quick and agile, and the enemy pilot was clearly no amatuer. Lee leveled his wings and went for a head on pass, his trigger finger jerking the trigger back. His fighter's machine guns chattered, and red tracers illuminated the sky between him and his prey.

The 109 pilot barrel rolled, avoiding the thumb sized rounds with flippant ease. The two warplanes were still closing on one another. Lee ceased his fire, realizing that he was simply wasting ammunition. The gap between his target and his own aircraft was closing rapidly as they approached the merge. It was a game of chicken now… the distance closed, the 109 was growing larger and larger in Lee's sight.

The Belkan pilot blinked first, rolling inverted and passing Lee from above. As the two adversaries passed, Lee gazed into the Belkans cockpit. Obsidian eyes met icy blue ones. The scene only lasted a moment, but to Lee, it felt like an agonizing eternity. He was so close, yet still out of reach.

The merge ended, and the two pilots continued on divergent paths. Lee looked back and caught the sight of a black eagle on the 109's nose. Lee's hand tightened on his stick… he would hunt for that black eagle, and he would kill him, even if it meant joining Kris.

"I'm coming for you. One day, I'll send you back to hell in an inferno." Lee broke away from the engagement, climbing back into the clouds. He shook his head and struggled to regain his composure. There was still a war going on, battle raging all around him, and he was in the thick of it.

Lee pulled his fighter away from the deck, and away from the smoldering crater Kris had become. The cloud cover hung low, and he took refuge inside of it. Other Belkan fighters would still be active in order to escort the large flight of bombers en route to level Neil. Lee knew that no matter what had just happened, he couldn't simply drop everything. The base was still in danger, and he still had to cover the other pilots as they took off. Even when so much had changed, so much else remained the same.

Lee spoke into his radio. "This is Captain Nagase, what is the status on Wolf and Wardog squadrons?" After he asked, he began to scan the sky again. Flak was still bursting wildly, and he began to grow concerned. Those anti-air gunners could just as easily kill him as they could kill the enemy. He was about to radio his concerns back to Base Command when he got his response.

"Wolf and Wardog are both in the air and are nearly at your position. The bombers are still approaching." Lee took a deep breath. The time had come to face the Belkans head on. He pulled free of the cloud cover and began searching for the other fighters. He found them on his six, approaching in a large formation. P-36's, P-26's, and the occasional P-40 made up the fighter wing.

"Hey Cap! Hope you and Kris didn't have too much fun without us!" Dean laughed over the radio… he was completely oblivious to what had happened to Kris.

"Speaking of which, where is he anyways?" Dean continued. From his cockpit, Dean was scanning ahead but could only find the one P-40 of his Captain.

Lee wasn't about to skirt around the issue. "Kris is dead. A Belkan fighter got him." Lee's tone was flat and cold. He didn't feel like talking about it, especially not now.

"Wha.. what?" Dean typically had a lot to say… but not now. Now, he was trapped in a loop of disbelief and horror.

"No. He can't be dead.." Dean hadn't known Kris as well as Lee had, but as members of the same wing, and as bunk mates, the two were still close. "He's somewhere, I know it.. this has to be some sort of cruel joke.."

"This is no joke Lieutenant." Inferno spoke up. "Lee wouldn't joke about something like that, not at a time like this. This is war, if you don't wise up, they'll eat you alive." Inferno's words were enough to push him free of his denial.

"Yeah…" Dean muttered quietly to himself. "You're right."

Lee was practically ignoring his two wingmates at this point. He had to remain alert. The Luftwaffe pilots were living up to their reputation. They were professional and deadly, and even a moment of inattentiveness could be fatal. He also had to be ready to effectively lead the two squadrons he had suddenly been entrusted with. Thinking tactically, he began to formulate a plan of attack.

He knew that his P-40's had the best chance in a dogfight with the enemy. The P-36's could hold their own against older Belkan He 112's, but were outclassed by the newer 109's. If he gathered his P-40's he could use them to engage the Belkan escorts. The P-36's were more or less suited to combat the Belkan Heinkel and Dornier bombers.

His P-26's, however, would be useless. They were obsolete in every sense of the word, little more than trainers. He'd send them to low altitude, to pick off any wounded Belkans as they attempted to flee.

"Alright. Captain Richards, Captain Donahue, and Captain Ivanov, form on me. We'll engage any escorts we come across. Lieutenant Davenport, Lieutenant Cross, and Lieutenant Abrams, form the remaining P-36's into bomber strike groups. Go low into the clouds and tear at them. All remaining aircraft, hit the deck and stay out of the fight."

A chorus of affirmatives cackled over the radio, and the formation dissolved into chaos as the wing's broke away, before reforming in Lee's new formation. The three P-40's of the other Captains dropped around Lee, and the P-36's formed three aircraft units, small V formations. The P-26 pilots dived away, into the ground cover, much to Lee's relief. He didn't want to have to worry about them.

Without radar, Lee had no idea where his flight was in relation to the enemy. The thick cloud cover also limited visibility. He was flying into battle blind.

"Where the hell are the-" Lee never got to finish his sentence.

Breaking through the clouds came the mighty Belkan bomber command, in all of its glory. Ju 88's, He-111's, and Do-17 bombers in tight formation, coming fast from Lee's 12.

"Fuck! Break left, break left!" Lee and his wingman rolled away, avoiding a mid-air collision. The bomber crews seemed as surprised as Lee did, several bombers breaking formation and gunners shooting wildly towards him.

"Attack flight, engage at will!" Lee growled, pulling in a climbing turn to return to the position above the enemy.

The P-36 formation broke through the low hanging clouds, guns chattering. Terrified radio calls from Belkan crews criss crossed the air waves.

"Oseans! Where did they come from?" One Belkan called, panicked.

"Where's our fighter cover!" Another demanded, his voice shaky.

The Belkan formation was alight with gunfire, as the nimble fighters dove in and around the tightly packed bombers, pouring tracers into wings and engines.

The Belkan escorts had woken up though. A pair of Bf-110's peeled away from their squad leader, diving on a pair of P-36s. The unsuspecting rookies were swatted from the sky before they could so much as scream.

Lee snarled silently to himself. "We gotta get in there!" He pushed his Warhawk around, screaming into the bomber formation. He weaved around the fat Heinkels and slim Dorniers, dodging golden streams of tracer fire.

A pair of He-112-V models were embedded in the formation, covering what was most likely the bomber lead. Lee pulled his fighter's nose around toward the closest 112, lining up a shot. He pulled the trigger with zero hesitation, shredding the light fighters fuselage, leaving the stricken bird to fall from the sky.

"Good kill." Reported another Osean. Lee didn't pay attention. He wasn't the type to gloat, especially over something like that.

The Osean pilots took advantage of the lack of cover over the Belkans flight lead. A P-36 with a stylized wolf on its tail dove on the Ju-88, igniting its bomb load. It detonated, motor oil, body parts, and shattered aluminum pelting nearby aircraft.

"Yeehaaa!" The victorious Osean pulled away from the fire ball, wagging his wings in celebration.

The Belkan flight was descending into chaos, but the stubborn and well trained pilots and crews refused to break. The surviving bombers remained in stiff formation, and the escorts grew more determined. A 109 made a quick pass on a P-36, cannon rounds tearing the Osean's wing off. The pilot bailed out, opening his parachute. At least he was still over friendly territory.

Another bomber fell from the sky, tumbling in flames, the work of another interceptor. Lee felt small amounts of pride swell within him. His plan was working... but he didn't dare grow complacent. So much could still go wrong.

Lee returned to scanning, looking for another target. He found it in the form of a Bf-109, with a demon's fearsome visage on its nose. An ace pilot... a dangerous pilot.

"I'm engaging." Lee reported to his wingman, before pulling inverted and diving on his target. The g-forces tore against him, threatening to knock him unconscious. He refused, fighting away the black around the edges of his vision.

The enemy pilot had seen him though. He snapped around, pulling into an attack position. Lee predicted the move, and barrel rolled, avoiding the 109's counter fire. He needed to gain speed now, and drew the fight down lower. His P-40 was more maneuverable at high speed, and the lower altitude would level the playing field with the higher powered engine on the 109.

To Lee's amazement, the Belkan pilot followed him, rolling down and diving with him. Lee's fighter was gaining more speed, having more weight. Once he hit 1,000 feet, Lee drew back on the stick, breaking his dive. The more nimble 109 broke its quicker, but the damage was done. Lee banked left and used his greater inertia to climb above and around his adversary, who had clearly lost sight of him. Lee lined up his gun sight and pulled the trigger, sending his foe to earth in flames.

Lee circled and confirmed the kill, before climbing back into the air-born brawl.

The bomber formation was in complete disarray now. The remaining bombers scattered, breaking their thick cage of defensive fire. However, Osean forces still could not shoot them down with impunity. Belkan escort fighters buzzed in the fur ball like vengeful hornets, knocking down the inexperienced Osean nuggets with relative ease. Lee watched as a P-40 attempted to swoop on a 112, only to be knocked from the sky by a 110. He had to get into the dogfight and even the odds. The battle hadn't been won yet.

"Wolf 2-3 and Wardog 3-4, form on me." He ordered, calling two nearby pilots. They formed on his wings.

The first pilot, Wolf 2-3, was the same pilot who had shot down the Belkan bomber lead, and Wardog 3-4 was one of the more accomplished rookies. Lee hoped they could both hold their own as they engaged.

"Wolf 2-3 reporting, call sign King of Hearts." The first pilot reported, his husky voice growling over the radio receiver.

"Wardog 3-1 reporting, call sign Samurai." The second one reported. His voice was shaky, laden with fear, but his flying didn't show it.

"Roger that. Stick close and cover my six. We're going to play with those escorts." Lee half rolled and dove into the fur ball, dodging streams of gunfire and flak bursts, cutting holes through the thick contrails of oily smoke. Fighters weaved this way and that, a chaotic dance of angels and demons.

"King, requesting permission to engage!" The wolf pilot declared.

"Granted!' Lee permitted, before rolling to avoid a Belkan heavy fighter.

The wolf pilot dove around, his twin 50 caliber machine guns shredding a Belkan fighter. He whooped and swooped around to pursue another target.

Lee found a new target of his own. A Belkan 112, who was sitting on the tail of an Osean P-36. He climbed to intercept, sending a quick burst into the foreign pilot. His engine sputtered and died, leaving him to glide back home. Lee didn't pursue.

The remaining bombers had jettisoned their bombs, and were turning for home. Many of them sported horrendous wounds; such as torn fuselages and dead, flaming engines. The escorts strained to cover their withdrawal.

"We got them on the run!" One Osean cheered. The others joined him. They all broke formation to pursue the wounded bombers. Lee cursed.

"Stay back! Don't pursue!" Lee dodged a Belkan attacker, before returning his attention to his men. Most of them did listen, but several continued on, only to have their wings melt in the proverbial sun. Belkan fighters tore into the disorganized Oseans, sending them back to earth in smoking wrecks.

"Fuck… Lee cursed, watching from above. There was nothing he could do. He was running low on fuel and ammunition.

"All pilots, return to base. We've done all we can." Lee sighed, before noticing that King was still on his wing. "Wolf 2-3, you can return to your flight lead." Lee informed him.

"Negative Captain. He's dead. Along with the rest of my flight. I'll hang with you."

Lee sighed and didn't argue. His wing was a man short, after all..

"Well then, your new designation is Wardog 1-2. Welcome aboard…?" Lee deadpanned.

"My name is Bartlett. Hank Bartlett."

Lee nodded to himself. "Welcome to Wardog Squadron."

The surviving Oseans were forming up once more. The impressive squadron had been reduced by half, and a somber mood persisted despite the victory. Only the strong and the cunning had survived. Too Lee's relief, both Dean and Inferno had survived the battle, both pilots joining the formation.

"Who's the new guy?" Of course, Dean always had something to say. Lee merely chuckled softly. Something had definitely not changed. "I'll tell you later, when we get back to Neil."

"What ever man." Dean responded.

The formation banked south, the rising sun to their east.

"Let's go home."


	3. The Blood Red Sea

/December 22, 1940/

/Commander Patrick Anderson/

/Inland Sea, 25 miles south of the Eaglin Canal/

Patrick Andersons gaze cut through the early morning fog, his soft eyes taking in a scene of tranquility and calm… but the man was not merely absorbing the beauty of the picturesque scene… he was searching for the proud tripod masts and stately superstructure of the OFS Eagle, the pride of the Pacific Fleet and flagship of Battle Group 3. The sun had still failed to rise above the jagged peaks of the central continental range, mountains that had been carved by the slow, unrelenting march of glacial sheets. The only illumination came from the dull red bulbs of the bridge. Despite this, in the darkness Patrick could still pick out the outline of the Phoenix's escort, a pair of heavy cruisers, a quartet of light cruisers, and twelve destroyers. He was still unaware of the surprise attack that had crippled the Atlantic Fleet, and the flotilla was in a low alert, only a handful of ratings actually watching the sea… and Anderson, of course.

Sighing, Patrick looked down, rubbing his forehead… what had started out as a calming exercise had quickly became monotonous and thoroughly boring… he was in charge of the bridge and could not leave, no matter how much he would like to finally get some sleep. He briefly considered waking the captain, but decided against it. The captain was a fierce man, and Patrick wouldn't want to alienate himself from him on the first day.

Finally having had enough, he turned and returned to the navigation bridge, taking his position next to the captains chair, overwatching the bridge crew. Above them was the firecontrol and radar, which would relay targeting information to the gun control in the armored conning tower. It was a complex system, a far cry from the simple optical targeting that had quickly died with the advent of new, advanced targeting computers. the entire system was classified top secret, and Anderson was fully prepared to die making sure it's secrets would not fall into enemy hands.

"Any contacts on the scope?" He asked, gazing to the officer in charge of relaying such information from the radar control and back to the bridge. the young man was slim and spectacled, and he jumped nervously when spoken too.

"Ah yes sir, I got it!" he quickly began to dial knobs, his scope coming to life. As it began to scan, a large green splotch appeared on the scope, several miles to the north of the flotilla… exactly where the Eagle and her battle group was supposed to be waiting.

Patrick smiled happily. "Go to frequency four-seven-oh. Put out a call, let the _Eagle_ know we're nearby. They don't have a radar yet, so give them our coordinates as well."

"Aye sir." The radioman sounded, immediately setting to work, sending out the call quickly and clearly. Patrick patiently waited for a reply.

A moment later it came, and the radioman happily began writing down a message as the code machine decrypted it. When it was done he handed it to Anderson, who read it aloud to the crew.

"OFS _Eagle_ to _Phoenix_, bearing 0-3-4 at 33 degrees north, 67 degrees west." He nodded to the helmsman, and then to the signal man. "Swing us to 0-3-4, ahead standard. Signal the other ships to the same." There was a sound of movement and voices as the two men obediently carried out their orders, the entire flotilla swinging to the north, directly toward the other ship. The boilers were running at full steam, the turbine engines humming through the hull as the entire flotilla sped up, search lights flicking to life as they began to scour the fog. Anderson wanted to simply open a radio channel and speak to the commander of the Eagle directly, but he was under strict orders... only use the coded messaging machine, and use light signals to communicate with his escorts. Clumsy but secure, no one lucky enough to be on the same frequency would be able to hear them.

They didn't need to wait very long. The fog was beginning to clear up, visibility improving dramatically. The sun was on its way into the sky, the cold air taking on a hint of golden warmth. If Anderson wasn't on duty he'd be watching the sun rise... it's own slow and tranquil journey to the sky... or, more likely, he'd still be in his rack, enjoying the beauty and clarity of a dream. Clarity was at least one thing he was getting to enjoy. He could see much further out to sea. The fog still hung over the shore, and without radar they still would not be able to see anything that wasn't directly in front of them.

On the horizon, the gray smudges of another battle fleet was illuminated by the sun, their silhouette distinct against white mountains in the distance. Anderson could make out the large tripod mast and single stack of the Eagle, and as they drew her own escort grew visible. The Eagle had completed a major refit a few days before and had been undergoing drills, testing her new boilers and engines under real world conditions. The next few days would be spent undergoing war games, and preparing for an eventual cruise through the Eaglin canal and to the Dinsmark Sea, north of Belka.

The yeoman approached Anderson and handed him a message that had been recently decoded. The officer opened it, and read it carefully. "We're clear of radio silence. Bring us to frequency 97.4." It only took a moment for those orders to be carried out.

"Commander Anderson, it's a pleasure to hear from you." Captain Jerome Erickman, CO of the _Eagle_, was an old friend of Anderson, dating back all the way to the academy. He had graduated a year ahead of him and had made a name for himself… but, considering his father was Secretary of the Navy, there may have been an element of patronage that allowed him to rise through the postings with such dramatic speed…

"Good to hear from you too, old friend. We'll rendezvous with your fleet and form a task force, then we'll head north. I'll also go wake Captain Snow… he'd be pretty sour if he missed the first day of exercises just because I wanted to hog all the glory. Lieutenant Jereau, you have the bridge. " He began walking toward the armored bulkhead that lead onto the bridge wing, and then down to the main deck. From here, the cold air was brisk and fresh, unlike the warmer, filtered air of the bridge. He took a deep breath and headed down, heading to the captains room… only to be violently thrown to the deck as the entire ship rumbled, steel groaning and wood cracking.

"Fuck!" He spat, rolling and protecting his head with his hands. Moments later the general quarters klaxon began to blair, rousing men from their bunks and splitting Andersons already sore skull.

He fought his way this his feet and toward the railing on the ships side, looking for any sort of damage… had a boiler exploded? a magazine? He looked to the center of the vessel, noting that the smoke stacks were still performing as normal… no thick black smoke, or a lack of smoke, that was a tell-tale sign that something was wrong with the boilers… what he did notice was that there was a ragged hole in the deck near the number 6 secondary gun turret, about eight inches wide and still red hot around the edges.

"What in God's-"

Another shell stuck hard, ripping through the deck and stopping as it hit the armored deck, 10 feet below the main deck. Anderson was thrown to his knees, cursing once more. He turned back to see, and saw for the first time their attackers… hidden in the fog, masked by the steep hills, was a sleek and deadly warship, escorted by a handful of other vessels, all of them painted in dark grey, black, and small hints of white… Anderson would be able to recognize the profile anywhere.. it was a_ Hindenburg_-class heavy cruiser of the Belkan Navy. Her guns were trained on the_ Phoenix,_ preparing to fire another salvo.

Anderson had no time to gawk. He found his legs and stumbled to a ladder, making his way through the various parts of the superstructure, back to the bridge. The armored door had not been shut, in a complete failure of protocol.. and as Anderson entered, he realized why. The bridge crew were mortified, frozen and unable to act… Steve Rodriguez, the communications officer, was plastered against the wall, hyperventilating and struggling to remain conscious.

Anderson rushed to him, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him roughly, before looking him straight in the eye. "Pull yourself together! We're under attack, men are dying!" Patrick then left the man there, reaching for the radio and donning a headset… he needed to coordinate everyone.

"Commander! Respond! Phoenix!" Captain Erickman was calling on the radio, his voice strained, much to Anderson's relief. He was alive.

"_Eagle_, we are under attack by a Belkan warship! Requesting assis-" Anderson was once more interrupted by the sound of a shell striking steel, but this time it wasn't stopped by armor… a large, armor piercing fifteen inch shell had penetrated the number one turret and was only stopped when it struck the barbette armor, the shell luckily a dud… if not, the entire magazine could have detonated, destroying the ship.

"Battleship! They have a fucking battleship!" One of the ratings howled, pointing to port. Anderson followed his finger, and gasped… the cruiser was a mere escort… on the horizon was the menacing shape of a _Dinsmark_-class battleship, her fifteen inch guns firing every couple of seconds, monstrous shells dropping into the frozen sea, closer and closer to the _Phoenix_..

"Hard to port, hard to port! Bring us around!" Anderson ordered, holding to the console in front of him. the startled helmsman did as he was told, swinging the ship hard around, narrowly avoiding a salvo of shells from the Belkan cruiser.

The Osean's were waking up… one of the heavy cruisers in Andersons flotilla, the _Kusanagi, _had her number one and two turrets trained on the Belkan cruiser… she rolled in the sea as her eight inch cannons roared, sending a powerful salvo of six, one thousand pound shells toward the enemy… only for them to fall short. Anderson swallowed… only now did he realize he was trembling.

The next Belkan salvo did not fall short.

No less than twelve eight inch and six inch shells struck the _Kusanagi, _penetrating her four times along her hull. She was listing heavily to port, her number one turret shattered, and her crew struggling to put out rapidly spreading flames… all in the matter of a minute.

"We need to get into the fight. Weapons, what's the status on the main armament?" Anderson snarled, looking to his weapons officer, his hands gripping the compass stand before him so tightly he was cutting off his own circulation.

The lieutenant choked, before finally managing to get a status report. "The number six turret of our secondary armament is out of commision, the turret ring was jammed… main armament is still undermanned, we have men in the magazines, but no one in the turrets themselves…"

Anderson shook his head. "Change that! get those guns live!" the lieutenant nodded, turning to his station and working quickly sending a message below decks.

The _Eagle_, on the other hand, was having no such issues… her fourteen inch guns had opened up, sending hot lead over the horizon towards the hostile battleship. They dueled one another, the much more modern Belkan vessel skirting the range of the Osean's guns, but the _Eagles _heavier armor preserving her as multiple shells struck her, bouncing off her turrets or fragmenting on her armor belt.

But the battle was growing worse for the Osean's… more and more Belkan ships appeared over the horizon. Anderson counted at least fourteen light cruisers, and six heavy cruisers… and, worst of all, was a second battleship… a much older _Sudentor_-class battleship, but her fifteen inch guns were still a massive danger. She was bearing down on the_ Phoenix_, the Belkan colors flying proudly in the mid-morning sun…

"Commander! The guns are online! I have the main armament ready to go!" Lieutenant CrOFS growled happily. Anderson grinned and ordered for a firing solution on the enemy cruiser.

Before they could get one, a shell struck one of their escorts, the light cruiser _Badger. _She was nearly split in half as an eleven inch shell from a Belkan pocket battleship, a _panzerschiffe_, struck her boiler room, cutting her keel and leaking fuel oil into the sea. She rolled over, men leaping from her sides, struggling to stay afloat in the freezing water.

The remaining three light cruisers were firing back, their main batteries barking, medium caliber shells streaking through the sky and bracketing a Belkan destroyer, battering the vessel until her fuel began to burn, the ship coming to a halt and slowly settling down to the bottom.

The _Phoenix_ was zig zagging, shell splashes raining down around her. The range had closed dramatically, and the two Osean task forces had merged, the_ Eagle_ and the_ Phoenix _only a few thousand yards away from one another. Any semblance of a formation had also been lost, individual ships maneuvering to avoid fire and gain new firing solutions on the enemy, who had created a semi-circle around the Osean fleet.

Anderson was struggling to maintain a sense of cohesion among the fleet. Several dozen ships milling about in a disorganized line of battle, firing at targets of opportunity as they presented themselves.

"Sir, we have a firing solution!" CrOFS called.

"Fire!" Anderson howled, his grip on the steel console growing stronger.

The gunnery officer didn't need to be told. He pulled the trigger, the gargantuan sixteen inch guns all firing at once, the vessel trembling as the recoil was absorbed by her steel hull. Flame and cordite smoke obscured Andersons vision for a few seconds, but the spotters in the conning tower had no such issue… around the enemy cruiser, massive spires of sea water was thrown up when the salvo arrived, taller than the ship's superstructure. One shell made contact, striking the Belkan vessel amidships, piercing an armored gun turret, and then detonating a small magazine full of 150mm shells… the vessel was rocked by hundreds of shells cooking off, finally settling to an inferno, thick oily smoke enveloping the Belkan cruiser.

"Yes! we got the bastards!" A sailor wooped, watching with awe as the fireworks on the enemy cruiser continued.

He was silenced by the sound of a trio of heavy caliber shells striking the deck, exploding violently, flames licking at the steel bulkheads and roasting any poor soul unfortunate enough to be nearby.

"They're shooting High Explosive at us!" the helmsmen shrieked, reflexively throwing the wheel around, the 35,000 ton warship heeling to port, her bow pointing toward the Belkan armada, providing a smaller target.

"_Pheonix_, status report?" One of the captains on an escort vessel questioned over the radio, his voice laced with both concern and stress.

Anderson coughed, regaining his composure. "The damage is superficial… no flames caught… still combat capable…"

The same could not be said for the _Kusanagi. _She had taken too much damage, her entire bow was enveloped in flames. Her men were making for the lifeboats and rafts, boarding them in a struggle to evacuate the wounded vessel before she finally slipped beneath the waves. No matter what, her guns still continued to sound, and Anderson realized that her gun crews were not going to evacuate. And neither was her captain.

"_Phoenix _to _Kusanagi, _what's your status?" Anderson asked, but he already knew. She was doomed.

The captain of the cruiser laughed. "It's a party over here… we sent off everyone who wasn't necessary to the guns, as well as the wounded… no matter what, I'm going down with this ship. But we're going to keep fighting until the magazines flood or the electricity for the ammunition hoists gives out… whichever comes first. Good luck commander."

The aft gun turret on the _Kusanagi _fired, shells arching through the air and dropping among the Belkan armada. A single shot struck the enemy _panzerschiffe, _the pocket battleship, in her forward deck… before she erupted in white flame, a massive explosion rocking the air as the Belkan vessels bow was disintegrated, the smashed and burning hulk slipping beneath the waves in a matter of minutes… the Osean ship had killed her from beyond the grave, a high explosive shell detonating in her magazine.

Cheering echoed through the battleship, but their glee was short lived. The battered cruiser finally gave up the ghost, rolling over and slipping beneath the frigid waters, lost to the world forever. Anderson saluted sharply, a tear forming at the corner of his eye…

"Thier bravery will be remembered… but first we need to survive. Helm, hard to starboard, ahead one third! Load armor piercing shells and get me a firing solution on that Belkan battlewagon!" Anderson ordered them sternly, finally letting go of the console and heading for the bridge window, trying to gain a better vantage point.

As he watched, a Belkan Armored Cruiser from the war previous was struck by a torpedo from a daring Osean destroyer, water washing over her deck as the fish detonated. She slowly began to roll over, Belkan sailors leaping from her deck. He felt some pride swell in his chest… his fleet wasn't doomed just yet. But he needed to get them under control. If they broke apart they'd lose the advantage of mutual support.

"Destroyers _Sparrow, Robin, Finch _and _Chickadee, _form around the cruiser _St. Hewlett. _We must keep her afloat at all costs, her heavy guns are too valuable to lose." Even as Anderson spoke, the four destroyers had begun to circle the much larger cruiser, their quick firing five inch guns sending a fifty pound shell toward the enemy ships every handful of seconds. The sheet of lead and steel was enough to prevent the Belkan Type-34 Destroyers from closing to launch a salvo of deadly torpedos toward the Osean task force.

"Commander, we have a firing solution on that Belkan capital ship, read to fire!" Lieutenant CrOFS, the weapons officer, reported. Anderson growled and pointed toward the enemy ship. "Fire broadside!"

The_ Phoenix _shuddered, her guns all firing at once, the sound rolling acrOFS the sea like the thunder of a fierce squall. Her heavy caliber shells struck home on the older Belkan battlewagon, some detonating on her thick belt, some bouncing off her sloped and rounded turrets. Several shells penetrated, shredding steel and shearing away bolted plate. One of her gun turrets had been cracked, the heavy artillery within falling silent as the gun crews were killed or wounded.

But the stalwart Belkans refused to give in. The enemy battleship responded with a salvo of her own, deadly accurate. The shells came in at a flat trajectory, striking the Phoenix along her hull. The heavy rounds penetrated her welded hull, smashing through compartments before striking the armor belt, where they all fragmented, failing to penetrate into the engineering compartments. No matter, cold water began to flood into the pierced compartments, washing men away and leaving the entire ship to begin listing.

Anderson nearly fell to the deck as the vessel jack knifed, her hull groaning. He looked up and eyed his Chief Engineer. "I need a damage report. I need to know how badly we're flooding. If we need to counter flood the ballast tanks, do it. We are not sinking, at least not today. Someone get the Captain as well."

However, no one needed to do that. Not even a moment after Anderson called the order, there was a severe thumping on the steel bridge door. Chief Engineer Penrith opened it, pulling the heavy piece of cast steel away to reveal Captain Snow, still dressed in his sleeping clothes and seething with anger.

"What the fuck is going on! Commander, I need a situation report!" Anderson saluted sharply and addressed the captain. "A Belkan fleet was waiting for us sir, ambushed us from the fog. I don't know how they got here, or from where, but one thing I know for certain, they want us dead. They have a full battle fleet out there, and radar is putting a second battle group approaching quickly from the north. We've already lost several ships, for a few Belkan, and they have a numbers advantage."

Captain Snow put a hand to his chin and began to think, his hawkish glare scanning the battle. "Commander Anderson, I have the bridge. Get a call out to the _Eagle, _we're withdrawing to St. Hewlett. The rest of the Pacific fleet can reinforce us there… We're about to be overwhelmed." Patrick nodded and relayed the information as quickly as pOFSible. Time was of the essence… even as they worked to try and get some form of cohesion, one of the Belkan Cruisers, which Anderson could identify as the _Admiral Ludwig von Baden, _had made it between the _Eagle's _and the _Phoenix's _flotillas, and was leading a force of other cruisers to cut off their retreat.

"Helm, bring us around on bearing one-seven-six, flank speed. I want our escorts to make a smoke screen. We'll have to make a run for it, see if we can make it into range of the coastal guns in the Eaglin Strait. That'll keep them off of us." The Captains orders were rapidly relayed through the ship, the entire flotilla turning away from the battle. Strangely enough, the Eagle and her escorts were not turning, despite the orders to withdraw having been sent to them multiple times. Anderson struggled to maintain a radio connection with them.

"_Eagle, _what is your status? Respond." He asked, multiple times, watching from the bridge wings as the dreadnaught and her two Heavy Cruisers steamed in a line behind the escaping _Phoenix, _forming a line of battle, sending deadly broadsides to the Belkan fleet. They were paying for it too. Several heavy caliber shells struck the _Eagle, _who was now listing heavily to port. Despite this, her own gunfire had the Belkan _Sudentor _burning from end to end, her heavy guns finally falling silent as her crews struggled to put the fires out. The more modern _Dinsmark _ was still relatively undamaged, her heavy battery still firing, so much that the paint was beginning to flake off her gun barrels.

But no matter, the battle was turning against the Osean Navy. Over the horizon came the shark like silhouette of two brand new Belkan battle-cruisers, _Scharnhorst _and _Gneisenau. _The Osean fleet stood no chance of running now… they were out numbered, and the Belkan fleet was faster than the Osean dreadnaught. Captain Snow's brow furrowed, and he eyed the faces of the men around him… pale, terrified, but thoroughly loyal.

"Turn the ship around… we're not going to die running. All ahead flank, let's tear a hole down their middle… make them pay for every Osean sailor who died today." The crew didn't say a word for or against, instead letting their actions voice their opinion. The _Phoenix _was swung around, her forward guns coming back into range of the enemy. The _Phoenix's _escorts swung around as well, their guns opening up on the enemy.

"Fire!" Snow barked, the six guns in the forward turrets coming alive, shells arcing through the frigid air. The heavy armor piercing rounds found a target on a _Scharnhorst, _striking her forward turret and penetrating, leaving a jagged hole in the turret roof. The _Gneisenau _responded in kind, her forward guns erupting in flame and cordite smoke. Six heavy caliber rounds splashed around the _Phoenix, _two of them striking her number two turret. They exploded on contact, forcing Anderson and Snow away from the bridge windows, protecting their faces from the eruption of flame.

"Damage control, get firefighters to turret number two! We cannot afford to lose it!" Anderson choked, looking over to Snow. He was shielding his face, but other than some superficial burns he was alright.

He turned to Anderson. "Look, Patrick… it isn't looking good. No cavalry is riding in to save us here… did… did you think it was a good idea to go back?" It was the very first time that Anderson had seen the Captain actually unsure about something, and it unnerved him greatly.

Anderson took a deep breath. "Sir, you of all people should know that in the darkest hour, it's the bravery and devotion of the sailors in the decks below us that will carry us through. There is nothing more we can do except hope God is with us today…" the ship rattled as she was hit again, this time the shot penetrating and exploding below deck, destroying several compartments in the ships bow.

Snow grimaced, but nodded slowly. "You're right… and I'm going to do my best to lead those sailors. Come on, we have a battle to win." The two men got back to their feet, brushing themselves off and eyeing the battle. The _Eagle _had finally succumbed to her wounds, capsizing and slowly slipping to the bottom of the sea. The _Phoenix _was the only capital ship the Osean fleet had left, against three Belkan. Anderson swallowed… his old friend, Erickman, was as good as dead, either from the enemy gun fire or the frigid waters of the sea.

"Helm, bring us on bearing oh-nine-oh, get me a broadside." Snow ordered, watching the fires be put out in the turret below. "We'll show them the fury of our guns, make them wish they never attacked us. I want the remaining cruisers to all form a line of battle with us, and the destroyers are free to wolf pack up and destroy any wounded stragglers… it's time we got into this, down and dirty.

The battlewagon banked sharply, cutting through the placid sea like a blade through flesh. The remaining heavy and light cruisers followed their lead, putting Snow's plan into action. He had crOFSed the Belkan force's T… he could fire broadsides while they could only fire directly ahead. With the narrow waters of the inland sea, he had the larger Belkan fleet essentially negated… they couldn't bring all of their numbers to bear, not all at once. Snow grinned darkly.

"All ships… fire everything you got."

The air was shattered by dozens of heavy guns snapping at once, shells and flame scouring the sky and streaking toward the Belkan force. Patricks adrenaline fueled howl of pride was silenced by the thunder of guns, the entire ship bowing to the force of her own broadside. For a few moments, those shells hung in the air, before landing with the force of a tremendous storm among the hostile fleet. A light cruiser was punished by twenty-two, six inch shells striking her superstructure and guns batteries, crumpling steel and shattering her hull. She fell to the bottom, broken and burning. The _Dinsmark _suffered heavily, all nine of the _Phoenix's _sixteen inch shells striking her along her hull, tearing gaping holes and buckling her frame. She limped forward, before making a full about face, steaming away at full speed as she struggled to escape. Despite this, even as she sailed away she fired back, shells from her aft turrets splashing around the _Phoenix. _

The hostile force began to scatter and break apart, struggling to escape the hail of shell fire that the Osea fleet was laying upon them. The Belkan battlecruiser _Von der Tann, _however, refused to run… and instead she fired an accurate salvo of eleven inch shells, each one striking the _Phoenix _in succession on her deck, detonating below on the armor plate. Snow cursed loudly. Anderson asked for a damage report, which was quickly given by Ensign Penrith.

"Boiler one and six are both losing pressure, and the inboard drive shaft is running at half power. We're going to lose speed." Anderson felt himself break out into a cold sweat. They _really _couldn't run now… all they could do was fight, hopefully force the Belkan fleet to retreat, force them away so they could limp back to port.

"Battle about to port!" Snow ordered, which was quickly relayed via radio to the other ships in the battle line. In time they all swung to port, showing off their other broadside to the Belkan guns. For a brief moment the bow of the _Phoenix _was pointed directly toward the Belkan force, her bridge once again vulnerable. Even as Anderson watched, a Belkan cruiser fired, a medium caliber shell arcing through the air… as it neared, time seemed to slow for the naval officer. The projectile was going to strike the bridge.

Snow had also seen it. In the few milliseconds of time before the shell struck, he was only able to comprehend the gravity of what was about to happen. A moment later, the HE shell detonated, blasting out the bridge windows and spalling, steel and glass pelting the bridge crew. Anderson covered his face with his hands, and Lieutenant Jereau was thrown to the deck. Smoke filled the room, before being filtered out by the ventilation system, a blast of compressed air from the boiler room cleaning the chamber as designed.

"God… goddammit… " Lieutenant CrOFS muttered, coughing and clearing his throat. Anderson stumbled, lowering his singed and lacerated arms. He was alive… the stinging pain and horrendous burning he could feel all up and down his arms was enough to tell him that. He wasn't critically wounded though, the bridge's armor had protected them from the majority of the blast and shrapnel.

"Captain?" He called, clearing his tear filled eyes and looking around the wrecked bridge. The front armor plate was bowed outward, and the glass had been shattered. Significant spalling had occurred, slivers of steel breaking away from the armor and embedding in anything soft enough to penetrate. Lieutenant CrOFS swore as he picked bits of glass and metal from his arms and face; spots of crimson soaking through his white uniform. Ensign Penrith pulled himself up from the deck, checking himself for injury.

"Is everyone alright?" Jensen asked, pulling himself up from the steel deck and returning to his station at the helm, taking the ship back under control. Anderson was still trying to regain his vision, his eyes still burning from the mass of smoke that had filled the compartment when the shell struck. "I'm fine…" He coughed, finally looking around. Engineer Penrith was already back at his station, monitoring the output from the engines and boilers. "We're leaking fuel oil…" He muttered to no one in particular. He seemed dazed.

"Captain Snow?" Anderson asked again. His ears were ringing, he could barely hear anything except for his own breathing and the muffled calls of the other officers of the bridge. He looked around, his vision coming back into focus. The navigator, Ensign Ravender, was unconscious. A large, blunt piece of steel had struck his helmeted head. Anderson felt a throbbing pain in his temple simply looking at him, and he briefly wondered if he should don a helmet, lest he be killed by a similar wound. "We have a man down on the deck… we need a medic…" he ordered in a still dazed manner, his mind feeling as if it was full of cotton.

"Commander! The Captain's wounded!" Ensign Rodriguez whimpered, nearly choking on his words. Anderson immediately felt like he had been showered in freezing cold water. His head swung around, and he gasped. Captain Snow was pinned against the deck, a gaping wound in his chest. A steel shard had been driven into his sternum, piercing his lung, and leaving him mortally wounded.

"Medic!" Anderson stammered, his eyes growing. The sound of the battle fell away, the swirling maelstrom seemingly calming. He rushed to his captains side, propping him up against the bulkhead. "Snow, you've been hit… don't try to move, you'll just end up making things worse." The older man grinned darkly, his eyes closing as he groaned.

"Give it up… I'm a dead man. In a highly cliche way, too…" He heaved, thick blood pooling on his lips as his damaged lungs filled with fluid. "And now here I am, ready to give my last words… wise and deep, something people will be quoting for years to come…" he chuckled, blood splattering down his front. "Like a novel… this is where I say something like 'don't give up the ship', or 'I have done my duty'. Well Patrick, I only have one thing to say… kill the damn bastards who did this…"

Adrian Snow gave one last rattling breath, his entire frame trembling as he struggled to breath. His eyes went glassy and he sputtered; head rolling down so it rested on his bloody chest. He was dead. Anderson struggled to his feet, unable to stop staring at the crumpled corpse of the proud man. War was hell, and even when the shooting stopped it would continue to haunt those who served. But to Anderson, he saw something else entirely. He saw a man who had died doing what he loved, somone who had lived his life and served his purpose. And now, the responsibility that Snow once bore on his shoulders had been passed to Anderson. The ship was his, and he had a promise to keep.

"Helm, battle about to starboard. Let's show our adversaries what we're capable off."

Commander Patrick Anderson saluted his Captain one final time, before turning around, eyeing the myriad of different faces, men, some of them little more than boys, who looked up to him, respected him. He cleared his throat. "Men, it has been a pleasure serving with you. Now, as we enter the lions den, I have one request of you. Stand by me." he said no more, taking his position at the head of the bridge, eyeing the situation.

Anderson felt no anger, and he felt no hate. He simply felt calm. Even his fear was gone. Accepting the only pOFSible outcome, his death, was key to this. His gaze scanned over the Belkan fleet, scattered but still imposing. Yes, they were his enemy, but they were also the only people on earth who fully understood and could commiserate with what he and his men were experiencing. Regardless of side, they were all the same. Warriors, sailors. And they would be facing the same fate that he was now.

"CrOFS, order all gun mounts to fire on my targets. Take down as many of them as we can." Commander Anderson watched calmly as the vessel before his, a heavy cruiser, was struck by a heavy caliber shell, nearly splitting her in two. The battle had reached a new stage, it had reached its climax. The Belkan's could smell victory, and now it had became a bloody knife fight in close quarters.

"Target that cruiser, 35 degrees to starboard. Send her to the bottom." The _Phoenix's _guns thundered, 16'' shells whistling loudly as they arched through the air until they finally struck, six shells shredding steel, the Belkan heavy cruiser's superstructure crumpled and fell into the icy sea, the fatally wounded warship falling from formation as secondary explosions tore through her hull. She was only saved from sinking when she became beached on the shore, her battered gun turrets finally falling silent.

The Belkan fleet responded in kind. _Scharnhorst's _heavy guns erupted, high explosive shells hurtling through the sky and crashing down on the _Phoenix, _shredding her teak deck and setting her ablaze once more. Anderson felt like whimpering… it wasn't helping that his ship was taking most of the enemy fire now. He wondered how much longer they would have before they finally succumbed and sunk beneath the icy sea.

"Damage report?" Anderson asked calmly. Despite his tone of voice, his composure was beginning to crack again. His hands were shaking uncontrollably and he felt like he was going to be sick. He had made a mistake, a big one, turning around. He could have ran, he could have…

"Engine three has been knocked out, I don't know how long it'll be until it's operational. We're also leaking fuel from tanks four and five and our number four boiler is leaking steam and losing pressure rapidly. We're also on fire and have suffered serious structural damage, compartments on B deck have all suffered various levels of flooding." Engineer Penrith's voice was grim. Thier ship was on it's last legs.

Patrick swallowed. The vessel was beginning to sit lower and lower in the water, and as the bridge lights flickered out and the gun turrets ground to a halt, the obvious became apparent. The power from the generators had been cut. Until the backup dynamos came online they would be at a lOFS for electrical power, and the men below decks would have nothing to guide them except for the emergency lights that operated from chemical reactions. Anderson needed to make a decision.

"All hands, prepare to abandon-"

Not for the first time that day, he was interrupted by an explosion. He gasped and looked out to the battle, and nearly fell to his knees. The _Von der Tann _was rolling over, men jumping from her sides as she was dragged down to the bottom. Circling triumphantly above was a Navy TBF Avenger torpedo bomber… one of many that were swooping down from the low cloud cover, coming in at wave top level and dropping their fish, before ravaging the enemy's decks with machine gun fire. Escorting them, high above, Navy F4F Wildcats circled.

"Those fighters look hotter than a drunk redhead." Helmsmen Jensen exclaimed, his voice full of the soft sound of relief and disbelief. The startled Belkan fleet was falling apart as they struggled to dodge the air dropped torpedoes, some even colliding with each other. Anti-aircraft guns began to rattle, flak and cannon fire scouring the sky, emerald and amber tracers arching acrOFS the sky.

Anderson knew an opportunity when he saw one. "We need to force them away. All ships, focus fire on their capital ships!" The message was rapidly sent to the surviving vessels, all of which began to focus their shell fire on the enemy battlecruisers. The Navy aircraft joined in, diving down sharply, machine gun fire scouring their decks. The nimble birds would come low before pulling out, barrel rolling and weaving in and out of massive pillars of oily smoke. The Belkan armada was suddenly at a serious disadvantage, and they knew it.

But no matter, they still refused to give in. One of the Belkan battlecruisers, _Seydlitz, _despite running low in the water and listing by the bow, was still sending deadly salvos of twelve inch shells toward the _Phoenix. _But even she could not resist, and her captain ran her aground before giving the call to abandon ship. A pair of destroyers moved to pick up her crew, but failed when the Osean light cruiser _Legano _began to open fire on them. The burning _Seydlitz _was left abandoned. The Osean fighters above ignored her, focusing on the surviving Belkan vessels.

Thus began the run to the north, to the Eaglin canal, which now rest securely in Belkan hands after an unexpected amphibious assault in the early hours of the morning. Osean naval air forces fought ferociously to sink as many of the Belkan ships before they reached the safety of their own air cover. The flak fire the Belkan force sent up in response was unyielding, 8.8, 3.7, and 2.0 centimeter shells detonating around the Osean dive bombers. One was hit by a medium shell, crumpling the bird and sending it into the waves, enveloped in flame. The destroyer that had presumably scored the kill was punished by a strafing attack, a Wildcat fighter swooping down, weaving through the anti-aircraft gunfire to lace her decks with deadly machine gun fire.

Anderson knew better than to pursue. His ships had all suffered damage, varying from the superficial to the mortal. His own flag ship was listing heavily, having taken on water. After reviewing and making sure his vessels were no longer endangered by the Belkan armada, he began to issue orders.

"All vessels, go to fleet speed, head for Riga. Once there we'll make emergency repairs and steam for St. Hewlett." As Anderson watched the oil stained waters, he took notice to the only remaining Belkan ships. The crippled battleship _Sudentor, _the beached battlecruiser, _Seydlitz, _and the stricken cruiser _Blütcher. _His own fleet had lost several capital ships, and if he left them Belkans would simply salvage them, and pOFSibly repair them at the port of Eaglin. He wouldn't allow that to happen.

"I also want the cruiser's _St. Hewlett, Ackerson Hill, _and _Gilgamesh _to tow the surviving Belkan hulks with us to Riga. We'll see if they can be repaired… if not, we take them for scrap. Either way, they're of too much value to leave behind." Anderson received a pleasing amount of confirmations to his idea. Taking the abandoned ships of an enemy fleet was often considered archaic, due to how quickly a ship could be utterly and completely destroyed. But here, he had three perfect opportunities, and wasting them would be a big mistake.

The three cruisers attacked lines to their rear turrets, using them like massive ball hitches, and began to tow the still miraculously sea-worthy vessels after them. The whole fleet would have to slow down to match their speed, but it didn't really matter… the wounded _Phoenix _could only make 12 knots, and they would have had to slow anyways. With the air arm protecting them from above, they at least didn't have to worry about attack. Ever so slowly, the broken fleet steamed for safe harbor.

As Anderson watched the patch of sea where they had all faced death, he desperately wish that he could at least thank the brave pilots who had swooped in and saved them. But such a thing could wait. He had a force to lead. after all, they weren't safe yet. And they would never be safe, not until the war, now mere hours old, was over.


End file.
